


Finding Common Ground

by xByDefault



Series: Controversy [3]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Angst, Culture Shock, Established Relationship, M/M, Magic!Robbie, Multi, Nordic and other cultural folklore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, all the kids at one point or the other, first and second gen Íþróttaálfurinn are two separate individuals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 62,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xByDefault/pseuds/xByDefault
Summary: The happy couple’s relationship is shook by the very foundation when Robbie finds out that they might not be as happy after all. To make things worse, Glanni is up to no good again, leading to Robbie and Sportacus having to learn more about each other from the most unlikeliest of places.Or:How an already bad situation got catastrophically worse, and then it just went downhill from there on. The universe had it out for Robbie, he was sure of it. As if he was a mistake it tried to rectify.But, he would not go down, not before he'd had a honest chance to save Sportacus... Even if the man didn't want him back..."Any suggestions?""Run," Íþró said and grabbed his wrist.Robbie winced, "I was afraid you'd say that."





	1. Chapter 1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back~!  
> The first step is always the hardest one, but this story is now a GO!  
> Picking up where we left off, one and a half year after AtG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December gone postal

At least it wasn’t snowing.

Robbie buried his face in his cold hands as he sat on one of the many park benches of LazyTown. It was somewhere around midnight, he was tired and chilled to the bone. Sportacus should be asleep by many hours ago, not that _that_ gave him courage enough to head back to his lair and into the warmth. He hadn’t seen anyone enter the blimp floating above the small countryside town, and so presumed that Sportacus was still in his lair. Waiting to continue whatever hell Robbie had set loose on a bad advised whim.

 

* * *

 

It had started with a, formerly, paper plane shaped letter clutched in Sportacus’ hands and a downturn of his usually cheery demeanour, which had set off several alarm bells for Robbie when he’d found him. Sportacus had a horrible poker face to begin with and smiles were the elf’s default setting, a neutral sober expression signalled seriousness and mild displeasure, and a gloomy expression… Spelled trouble.

Finding out what exactly was wrong didn’t take long.

After a period of illness, which the Faroese elf had been too stubborn about to share with his closest of kin, with his wife being the only exception, Sportacus’ grandfather Emil had passed away during the weekend. Calmly so in his sleep, if he’d understood right. Sportacus had been troubled for the past days during their sparse downtime hours after he’d gotten the letter from his family, and Robbie had at least tried to show his support to his boyfriend. As far as he knew how to, after nearly one and a half year as an official couple you’d think that he’d gotten the hang of things. Or, so he’d hoped. He tried, but that didn’t mean that he always got it right, as later events would bear witness to.

Personally, Robbie had only met the grim man once, and the brief experience had been passive aggressive borderlining on escalating into a fight between the elders in the vicinity. And, from what he’d heard of Sportacus’ recollection of his youth as a young elf thirsting for adventure beyond the sea, the old man had been strict and of the old school when it came to disciplining children.

And thus, he couldn’t say that he harboured too much sorrow at the news of the old man’s passing, but Sportacus needed someone when he’d received the message. Even if the elves relation was questionable at best. He couldn’t quite put himself in his partners position, but there was an earnest attempt that Sportacus claimed being all he needed, that the kids and Robbie was enough to cheer him up, and he’d soon bounced back into something resembling his former self, just in time for attending the services…

 

Robbie did think it had gone a little _too_ smoothly.

 

At, literally, the last second Sportacus asked him, “would you like to come with me? It’s quite beautiful this time of year.” A big smile on his face, despite the unhappy reason why he had to leave for a period.

Timing, the elf had it not. Robbie said the first excuse that came to his mind, “I was there last summer and nearly lost my privates to the exposure,” and scoffed. Not a complete lie coming from him. If summer was that bad, he didn’t want to find out what winter was like. “Thanks, but no thank you.” It put somewhat of a balm on his guilty conscious. He had good reasons for staying behind, besides the horrid Northern weather.

“It’s not _that_ cold during winter, but, well, okay then.” he gave him a peck on the cheek before he grabbed onto the rungs of the ladder leading up to his blimp. “I’ll miss you,” he added as he’d stepped upon the first row.

“I’ll miss you too, now get going before they send someone after you.”

It looked like his partner was about to say something, a twitch by the corner of his mouth, before it passed. Robbie leaned in to give him a proper farewell kiss, taking advantage of them being the same height for a change. “Go,” he murmured against his lips and let go. With a quick nod, Sportacus climbed up the ladder and soon thereafter the blimp flew away.

 

No sooner had the flying death trap disappeared did Robbie feel like his centre had been moved slightly to the left.

He should have gone with him, he sighed wistfully into the cool winter air and trudged back to his lair.  But, the local, not quite so redeemed, villain reminded himself, he did have legitimate reasons for staying behind and that were out of his control.

Simply saying that he could not tag along because of the _postal office_ of all things, without further explanations, was out of the question. He’d muttered to himself as he descended. “Yes sorry, I can’t accompany you because I’m waiting for a package. And no, you can’t ask me why.” That would just make it sound worse, he argued to himself.

Sometimes it felt like the universe was trying a little too hard on proving its point regarding Robbie Rotten. The only thing that wasn’t delivered straight away, not involved in any schemes or a product of Television Shopping. Was ultimately the one and only thing that was delayed by two weeks and counting.

 

The following morning, dressed in fingerless gloves, padded west and the scarf tied so many times around his neck and chin that it obscured anything below his nose, he took up a perch by the entrance of his lair. Feeling even more off kilter after being kept awake all night by his own buzzing head and the reason why he was able to be up before noon, it didn’t count if you’d never gone to bed in the first place. Whatever, he could nap when the whole ordeal was over with.

It was fine, he told himself for the umpteenth time. It. Was. All. Fine. If Sportacus had really wanted him with him then he’d ask sooner, and Robbie would had made arrangements.

 

He didn’t have to wait for long on his perch, however, the moist air trapped inside the scarf against his mouth was starting to become unbearable, when he finally spotted his objective come bicycling in the shallow snow up the sloping road, struggling with every so other pedal. Really, who did that this time of year? Just more proof that something was seriously astray with the town’s services.

If the postman was expecting to send his delivery down the chute as per usual and be done without any personal exchange, then he was sorely mistaken. Robbie had been patient, to say the least. But, passiveness could only get you so far. The wait was getting ridiculous and had already started to infringe on his already volatile routine of cake, brushing teeth, kiss the elf, eat more cake, nap, rinse and repeat. And maybe one or two ploys, he wasn’t retired after all.

“Mr. Rotten?” the man sputtered, when he caught sight of Robbie waiting by the chute.

The postman was a gangly squirrely looking man, shifting his weight from foot to foot and refusing to meet Robbie’s eye, instead darting his gaze around anxiously. Set up a contraption in the mail chute once and people suddenly got nervous.

“Yes?” Robbie drawled, secretly relishing in the fact that he could still inflict some sort of alarm in the general populace of LazyTown.

“Oh, right, uhm, this is for you,” the man clumsily dug up an envelope out of his messenger bag for Robbie.

He yanked it out of the outstretched mitten and tore it open. His excitement deflated like a balloon on the first line of printed words. _‘To whom it may concern. Due to unpaid invoices-_ _’_ Another bill from the library, typical. His mood turned sour, he snapped his gaze back up to the retreating mailman. “Is this all there was?”

Escape to his bike having been ultimately intercepted, the nervous man turned around, clutching his bag like it was his last defence. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

“You sure?” Robbie had half a mind to shoot the messenger. Not a figure of speech. “There isn’t a little something at the bottom of that bag of yours?” His voice delivering the sneer hidden behind the fabric of his scarf.

“Yes, you’re, uhm, you’re the last one on my route.” To demonstrate, the man held the bag upside down and gave it a shake. It was indeed, empty.

Grumbling and swearing under his breath he returned back to his, slightly warmer than outside, home to make himself some hot cocoa to elevate his spirits before he tried to conk out. There wasn’t much else to look forward to and he refused to engage in any, urk, _winter_ _activities_ , which he made sure to inform the brats when the youngest of the bunch came a knocking later on. Emotional notion of feeling touched at being remembered aside, the only good thing about snow, besides stuffing it inside someone’s shirt as petty revenge, was that it muffled noises.

 

And that’s how the days carried on. At least the kids had wised up by the second day and stayed away when it had become clear that, ‘ _no, he did not want to watch them play, come back next year!_ _’_ Which rang hollow, as next year was less than one month away. He was sure that Sportacus would give him the sober face of mild disapproval the moment after the brats had tattled on him about his foul mood.

 

The foul mood did not improve. By day three, the day before his partner’s expected return, and the day of when the prelude of ruin began, Robbie threw a tantrum down in his lair.

Tearing the envelope of yet another bill into fine ribbons as an outlet for his frustration made him feel momentarily better, but it was over just as soon as he realised two things. One; He had to clean up the fresh confetti surrounding him. Two; He could have accompanied Sportacus this whole time. Just his luck then, he grimaced as he bent down and gingerly began the arduous task of cleaning up his mess.

 

“Stupid snail mail… Never going to order anything from those guys ever again….” he grumbled and backed up as he collected the remnants. The only thing that made him feel better was knowing that Sportacus would return soon, back with him. Damn it, he missed him, and he wished that he could’ve at least been able to communicate with him during his absence, but _no_ news was _good_ news at this aspect. Unlike the mail office’s failings. The creeping thought that his order might have been stolen lurked its way inside, but he tried to shake it off. He had awful luck, but surely it wasn’t that bad? Was it?

His worry was cut short when he accidentally backed into a cabinet. Making him yelp in surprise and banging his head on a drawer that came out from the initial impact. Dropping the armful of paper that went flying around him again as he clutched his head and nearly doubled over. “Oww! I knew it, hard labour does not pay off.”

Folding over like that turned out to be for the better, or he would have surely been hit again by the falling object, missing his head by an inch. A thick paperback went down on the floor with a thump among the chaos. Rubbing the top of his head and wincing, Robbie squinted down at the new object before him. “What?” He hadn’t seen that book around before, he didn’t own that many regular books to begin with, and he wasn’t one for buying ones, not when you could get stuff for free by _borrowing_ from the library, which he was probably banned from now, based on one of the many invoices. It must be one of Sportacus’ belongings that had found their way down into his lair, not all too surprising.

Despite what various outdated and misleading sources of folklore claimed, the elf didn’t like being underground all that much. Nor had there been any talks, or visible hints, of wanting to share living space together full time, and yet, which Robbie took as a good sign, a whole deal of his belongings had begun to stack up down there.

Sportacus’ own bookshelf consisted of a repurposed closet that he’d jammed full of books and now he’d started to dump them here instead it would seem. His lips tugged into a small smile. When the energetic man-shaped rubber ball got the time to read, was beyond him.

Curiously, he picked it up and turned it over to examine the front of the yellow cover, the crass illustration didn’t impress much, but what first and foremost caught his attention was the crude block lettering, changing between different fonts every other word. The smile vanished instantly. He felt as if someone had pulled the rug from under his feet.

 

He must’ve misread it. He wasn’t that much of a reader to begin with and he had hit his head only moments ago. He read it out loud, trying to convince himself that he was wrong.

 

“When… The person you love…” Robbie swallowed, hard, and continued, “is…  _Mentally ill?_ ”

 

He read it over again repeatedly. Desperately trying to make sense of it. His hands shook with a tremor going through them as he clutched the paperback. “What the hell?” he said under his breath. He dropped it to the floor again at his feet as if burned on contact. Nope, no. He didn’t want to deal with this. He kicked the paperback in under his recliner with force. Out of sight out of mind.

If there was one thing Robbie was good at. It was ignoring inconvenient or troubling things. He would’ve gone off the deep end years ago otherwise. That… Was perhaps not the best choice of words, if this was what…

No, better forget it all together.

 

And forget it he did. Until he thought about it again, festering in the back of his mind all the following night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dying whale noises*

“Good morning, Robbie,” a soft tenor voice roused him from his fitful slumber.

Robbie made a noise in the back of his throat. Sportacus? His busted internal clock told him that it wasn’t morning, despite the phrase. He must’ve missed Sportacus’ arrival and the man had gone to search him out instead. Bleary eyed, he looked up at the upside-down figure of the elf leaning over him, trying to make sense of the position, until he realised that he was lying the wrong way around in his recliner. He managed out a weak, “help,” after awkwardly flailing to get up.

With a low chuckle and a bemused look, Sportacus reached down to pluck him up like he weighted nothing to help him around and down. Smile growing fond, he joined him to curl up in his lap in the fuzzy recliner, holding Robbie tight and kissed him on the corner of the mouth and then fully and long. Something that would never fail to steal the air from his lungs.

“Welcome home,” Robbie said breathlessly as Sportacus tucked his head under his chin.

“I’ve missed you.” The warm puffs of his breath contrasting his cold nose as he nuzzled closer.

He played with the darker hair sticking out from under the hat by the back. Noting that it was trimmed shorter than last he’d touched it. Sportacus must’ve gotten a haircut whilst being amongst his people. “Missed you too,” he replied. An understatement. Four days had felt as four years. He tightened his grip around him and the man melt into him with a sigh. Sportacus would not stay still for much longer, but until then Robbie would soak in the warmth and the familiar comforting weight on top of him.

As predicted, Sportacus began to shift around after a while to break the comfortable silence. “Someone’s been busy,” he said, raised his head and cast a look over the large room.

Oh, right. The paper he’d littered over the place. “I was cleaning, but then I hit my head and had to have a lie down.” Amongst other things. Robbie tilted his head. “Got a bump for all my troubles.” He sucked on his teeth and added, “not worth it.”

“Can I?” Sportacus raised his hand tentatively up to his hair and felt for the bump formed on his scalp, when he touched it Robbie hissed, and he drew back quickly. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“I only accept apologies through kisses,” Robbie said and wiggled his eyebrows, earning him a snort from the man.

“What happened?”

Robbie yawned and smacked his lips. “I backed into and hit my head on the underside of a drawer. Fun times, really. That’s what I get.” Truth was, that Robbie had felt disturbed enough afterwards that he’d forgotten all together about tidying up the squalor, or shower, or much else. He didn’t exactly look that presentable in his current state.

 

His treacherous stomach growled.

 

“Have you eaten anything yet?”

“I just woke up.”

Sportacus pursed his lips and gave him a scrutinizing look.

“So,” he tried to change direction, “how was Hulduland?”

“Icela- Never mind.” Sportacus stopped himself from correcting him when he caught his teasing expression and flashed a small smile, that didn’t last for long however. “It was… Fine.” It sounded tired. A bad sign.

Fine for a funeral he meant then. It wasn’t pronounced _fun_ -eral for a reason, or so he’d been told, by offended people. Things were definitely not alright, he knew that neutral look. “Out with it,” he tried to wheedle him. When it came to happy good feelings, and the virtues of healthy living and friendship and other yucky things, then getting the elf to shut it was nigh impossible, not without receiving a wry smile and an ‘ _okay, Robbie_ ’. Meanwhile, getting the hero to talk about the other side of the spectrum, about negative stuff, was instead like pulling teeth. If it was something Robbie was accustomed to it was negative feelings. Heck, Sportacus only knew half of it and he intended to keep it like that. Hypocrite that Robbie was.

If anything, the look intensified, before he finally answered with a sigh. “The kids told me you’ve been holing up here ever since I left.”

Not what he’d asked, and mild disapproval so soon? “There wasn’t much to see up there,” he said. “Too cold to lazy around.”

“There are many activities I’m sure that you’d enjoy.”

“Maybe so,” Robbie hummed, starting to feel the happy gooey feeling leave.

He looked beyond his partner. “You brought something with you?” Behind his boyfriend, slightly to the right in his visual field, was a two-foot square box. Horror coloured his face. “It’s not fish, is it?”

“No,” Sportacus replied and loosened his hold round Robbie to raise into a sitting position, “I don’t think so?” He looked over his shoulder. “I found this outside the entrance on my way in. It has your name on it. Were you expecting a package?”

That sneaky mailman, the one day Robbie missed the mail. The box was far bigger than he’d expected also, but that was a triviality. “Eh,” he made a noncommittal sound and shrugged, trying hard not to look too excited.

“Robbie,” Sportacus coaxed in turn, having grown used to his follies by now it would seem.

“Cake mix subscription I forgot to cancel,” he lied. “You know how it is sometimes.”

The elf didn’t look like he believed him. Robbie was really losing his touch.

He hid his nervous tic by rubbing his face and pretending to get rid of the last lingering residues of drowsiness as the other man jumped up and out of the chair completely now. Good things never lasted long.

“You’re not going to open it?” he asked as he bounced from feet to hands and back again in a circular motion that was probably good for _something_.

“If I open it with you around, I’ll probably send you to the beyond if you accidentally inhale one iota of the mix. _Double Trouble Chocolate Gooey Yummy Cake_ is not to be trifled with.”

Sportacus looked almost sick at the mention of the cake and only nodded dumbly, the full body motion coming to a halt. Robbie mentally patted himself on the back. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

“You’re going so soon?” Robbie pouted. Getting mixed feelings at the prospect of opening the box without Sportacus, and at the same time bummed out at being left alone so dismissively.

Sportacus clasped the back of his neck and looked guilty. Good. He should feel so for abandoning Robbie just after coming back. “I promised Stephanie and the others to join their bandy game after I’d checked up on you.”

He raised a brow and hummed. “Checked up on?”

“Well, that’s what I _told_ them.” The grin could only be described as cheeky before he bent down to kiss him again. "I'll come back later.”

“Fine, but keep the ruckus down. And no laughter. And definitely _no fun_ ,” he griped half-heartedly.

The elf laughed as he bounced away and out of the lair.

 

Robbie smiled and stretched, however at the sound of Sportacus closing the lid behind him, he threw himself over the box to tear it open.

 

Confusion and disappointment did not even begin to cover his feelings.

 

“Are you _kidding me?!_ ” he bellowed in indignation when he saw its contents.

This was most certainly not what he had ordered!

With an expression of outmost disgust, he picked up a weaved basket brimming with shiny red apples.

“Okay, very funny! I’m having a right laugh!” He looked around himself, expecting either a hidden camera to present itself, or one of the brats, or the damn sports elf himself to come grovelling back begging for forgiveness for such a distasteful prank, whichever of the options that came first.

Having none of the three outcomes happen, he took the accursed thing and placed it on the counter near the kitchen area where he could glare at it properly.

He cast one glance at the clock and concluded that the postal office had already closed so there was no way for him to call, or bring the door down in person to ask what on earth they thought they were doing. Robbie was not much for personal interaction, that didn’t however mean that he had any issues with telling authorities, publishers and any other misfortunate telephone receptionist, of just what he thought of their so-called services. Especially if he felt in a righteous mood. Robbie-I want to speak to your manager-Rotten, that was him alright.

“At least there’s one person here that’ll be overjoyed with you,” he sniffed at the disgusting gift basket.

 

The basket itself lacked any tags or written cards, so he searched the box for clues on who could’ve possibly sent it. The addressee was indeed him, he saw when he puzzled the pieces of carton together, but anything else eluded him. An international stamp? However, there wasn’t much else to derive.

“Weird. Really, really, weird…”

His stomach growled again, and he clutched at it. “Right. Let’s get something. Something sweet and salty. Ooh, maybe I’ll do the cake after all.” He blew a raspberry and pulled a face at the apples. “And certainly not _you_. _Yuck!_ ”

 

Nothing could possibly beat a rich chocolate cake covered in whipped cream. He hummed in pleasure and sauntered back to his seat. And, stopped in his tracks, his face falling. The recliner must’ve moved when he dashed out of it earlier. A corner of yellow peeked out from under the footrest. His stomach tied itself into a painful knot, ending what appetite he’d had. Robbie toed it back in under, feeling uneasy.

Things were fine he told himself yet again, having become a mantra of sorts. Sportacus was back, had told him and shown that he’d missed him just as much as he himself had. Sure, a little tight lipped about the services, but he’d promised to come over later again, most likely to stay the night. Robbie was overthinking the whole ordeal. He called down the television with a press of a button to distract himself from overanalysing one short interaction, and then all interactions the last month, and further back. He worried his lip, plate of cake near forgotten in his lap. He’d ask Sportacus, when he’d figured out a way on how to bring up the subject without actually bringing it up.

 

The confrontation would, as things usually were, be happening sooner than he was ready for.

 

He’d heard his boyfriend come down the shaft of the entrance, but the happy chirp of ‘ _Hi_ _Robbie!_ ’ was lacking.

One moment, he was watching the building climax of a longwinded soup opera, the big scene that would unveil the evil triplet. The next one, he was staring at a sports elf and Robbie missed the whole thing. “No! What are you doing!?”

 

Sportacus stood in his line of sight to block out the television, his arms crossed over his chest and his lips drawn into a firm thin line, looking mighty displeased.

He blinked in confusion. “Anything I can help you with?”

Sportacus didn’t move out of the way. “I saved the mailman from slipping with his bike on an ice patch.”

“To no one’s surprise,” Robbie drawled. That’d show him for biking. “And?” Saving people was what Sportacus did for a living, or something or the other, this was an everyday occurrence.

“He told me you’ve been harassing him.”

He scrunched up his face. “I did not.” Seemed like everyone had to come running to Sportacus about his boyfriend’s unsightliness. As if he was a pet that had been misbehaving outside its owner's supervision.

“Robbie, we’ve talked about this.” Displeasure shifting into disappointment. Great, like that was any better.

Yes, about not toying with people and try to be nice. “I have _not_ been harassing him. I’ve been outside to collect the mail in the mornings.” He counted on his fingers. “I have not threatened him, harassed, or acted in any way hostile.” Coming up with five fingers held up. “I might have sneered, but I’d like to think that’s part of my natural charm.” He’d gotten a daily dose of _healthy_ air. Finding out that Robbie had done anything besides skulking underground should’ve pleased him, but evidently that was not the case here.

“ _Robbie_.”

“Oh c’mon! How is this possibly my fault?”

“Why have you been tormenting him on his route?”

Okay, so maybe Robbie would be the first to admit that he’d been in one of his little pity party episodes, where he did nothing but grouch and think nothing was working in his favour. Which had only been worsened by circumstances, making him lash out. But, that was Robbie’s personal business, and certainly nothing that he wanted to weight Sportacus down with.

He’d tried for a full year to shield Sportacus from his more misanthropic side, the side that would hurt him.

 

The reminder of what was hidden under the chair came back with a vengeance. Had Sportacus felt weighted down anyway? Despite Robbie’s best efforts to keep his schemes and the collateral damage to a minimum. He hadn’t gone overboard in a long while. “You wouldn’t otherwise care.” Being grouchy towards the mailman was nothing compared to the things he could whip up a few years ago. “What’s gotten into you?” Robbie got up on his feet, not liking how this was turning out.

The man uncrossed his arms and began pacing in front of him instead. “You can’t just...” He made a frustrated noise, probably trying to find an appropriate word or phrase in English. “I feel like you don’t…” Another frustrated noise. “I worry. When I leave you… You…”

“Yes?” he inquired, warily.

“I wanted you with me,” he eventually said. “I wanted you to come with me.”

Robbie should’ve known, well he had, in a way. “Why didn’t you say so?!”

“I did ask you,” he pointed out.

“At last second, and flippantly so,” he volleyed right back. “How about, hey, Robbie. I’d like the emotional support, come with me.” He stomped irritably with one foot, not knowing what to do with himself in his rising agitation. He was equally mad at himself and Sportacus, and his bad temper flared. “Not some random drivel about the weather!” Robbie had felt guilty for staying behind, but that didn’t give his partner right to make it sound as if he had begged on his knees for him to follow, when he in reality had just offered the option when it was nearly too late and making it sound less important than it was. He wasn’t psychic, damn it and he voiced so.

“I know,” he replied. His shoulders slumped somewhat and he looked down at his feet. “Sorry.”

Robbie hummed. Now that that unpleasant experience was out of the way, he tried asking Sportacus about his days out of LazyTown again, since he’d been right. “Did they tell you what happened to him, your grandad?” He carefully approached him to put his hands on his shoulders.

“ _Krabbamein_ … Cancer,” he said, bluntly. “It was cancer.”

“So much for healthy living.” The words slipped out before he could stop himself.

He felt Sportacus tense up before he got to take it back, and the man easily broke free to glare at him. His expression darkening in a way that made Robbie gulp. “Some things can’t be avoided. A large portion that gets it is by bad luck. Not genetics, or healthy living. It helps chances and improve longevity, but it can still happen.”

“Okay, sorry,” he said and raised his hands before him in surrender. “So, it happens, yes, but it’s not like the old man was-” Robbie bit his tongue. _'Was honest_ '. No. That was none of his business in turn. He changed midsentence. “Like he was young, or nice.” For the average elf, the stuffy elder had lived a decently long life. He wasn’t snatched in the early cusp of his youth. Old people died for various reasons, it was expected of them.

That reasoning made things worse. ‘ _Nice going there, champ_ _’_. “He was my grandfather. He practically raised me!”

Despite most likely not even being his real grandfather. Robbie worked his jaw, it would be so easy to just lay it out in the open and have it over and done with. That’s what a past version of him would have done. Thrown the figurative hand grenade into the room and then lock the door to let the recipients deal with it. “You didn’t seem that close,” he said. It sounded weak to him even.

“You met him for a brief time. He didn’t know what to make of you either. I knew him, like I know you.”

Then Sportacus hadn’t known the old man that well at all, it would seem.

“Yes, yes, I get it! Family bonds, kinship, the whole thing, will you drop it already?!”

“Do you, really? I know nothing of _your_ view of family. Robbie, I don’t even know your mother’s name!”

That hit him right out of the blind spot. Where the hell was this coming from? He blinked at the out of the blue argument, however he got his bearings back quickly enough. “Maybe it’s for good reasons,” Robbie argued. “Remember Glanni? That was fun, right?” A grimace flashed over the other’s face at the mention. Sportacus had met Glanni. An experience that Robbie wished to erase from his memory all together. And the sociopath was still out there somewhere, having not heard anything since the letter from Norway.

Last thing they needed was if the elf was to be introduced to the woman that’d raised him and done a rather peculiar job out of it.

Then there was the whole debacle of his dad, which Robbie most certainly was never ever to bring up again, _ever_. He’d learned the hard way that some stones had never been meant to be turned and was now just another unpleasant thing that Robbie had to repress, to be forgotten and never be brought back again. For everyone’s sake. “I don’t talk about them for a reason,” he said again.

“This isn’t how I wanted to discuss with you about this.”

‘ _Then maybe you shouldn_ _’t have started a fight,_ ’ he thought sourly. “I don’t know anything about what you’re actually trying to discuss about.” If this was about family values, then boy, was Sportacus arguing with the wrong guy. Robbie could probably write a book and call it ‘ _Dysfunctionality one o_ _’ one_ ’, making it a best seller.

 

Sportacus had started pacing again. “What aren’t you telling me? We’re supposed to be in this together.”

“Are we? It doesn’t feel like it,” he said, coolly. Not caring for the prying and patronizing tone.

The other looked like he was ready to work a hole in the flooring. And, then spoke, words spilling that made Robbie lose what little restrain he'd had to begin with. “Why are you like this? I come back and find your place in worse shape than I’ve ever seen it. Find out that you’ve been yelling at people and you haven’t taken care of yourself, like you don’t care at all. Can’t you understand that I worry and just be honest with me?”

 

If this was a soup opera, this was probably where the evil doppelganger would enter the scene. Instead, he had an agitated sports elf slowly after one bugged up argument after the other coming to the core issue. And he didn’t like it, one bit.

 

No one had asked Sportacus to worry over Robbie. Robbie was in fact doing _just dandy_.

 

His hands shook by his sides.

 

But, apparently, Robbie was nothing but a reason for _concern_ and _condescend_.

 

“Oh, oh that’s rich.” He felt a heat uncoil and spread, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Well, what do I know, of anything?”

 

He drew himself up to his full height and either Sportacus could sense it, or there was something about the rising heat in his face, but the shorter man seemed to become aware that their positions were to alter.

He squared up and threw a different type of grenade, locking themselves both in to deal with it before he thought better of it. Fuelled by anger, frustration and hurt. “After all, I’m just _a mentally ill person!_ ” He near cried the last part out in the man’s face. “ _Aren_ _’t I?!_ ”

Sportacus gaped at him, visibly staggering and eyes impossibly wide. “Wha-?” 

“I found _your book_ ,” he ground out, taking steps back to search under his recliner for the paperback he’d kicked under there, keeping eye contact as he pulled it out for Sportacus to see. “ _This_ is what you think of me?!”

The colour drained from his face and, for one hopeful second, Robbie thought that he had been wrong, that maybe this was just a dumb tasteless joke played on them both. Until Sportacus found his voice again. “I can explain.”

 

Oh, it was _on_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW THE HELL DO YOU WRITE PEOPLE ARGUING?????? (especially when one is the pure embodiment of sunshine and the other being... well, Robbie) AND NOT DRIFT INTO OOC TERRITORY!!!???


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be biased because of the string instruments, but;
> 
> 'Haustið nálgast' by Steindór Andersen & Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson is a very beautiful chant (Rimur) about how fall is approaching and how nature change as time passes.  
> Give it a listen.

He watched him waver before him and for the first time, Sportacus actually looked unsure.

 

Robbie motioned the book erratically between them. “Explain then,” he spat, “and it better be good, Sportafib!” taking one of the less pleasant nicknames back into use.

“You,” he worried his lip, “you can be a bit of a handful at times,” he said. That was true, Robbie knew that too, that was practically one of the first things he’d said to the damn man when he’d declared his feelings.

 

But _this?_ This was on a whole different scale.

 

“And so, you got yourself some leisure reading material about life with lunatics?!” To hell with indoor voices.

“No! No, of course not, listen,” he tried to get a hold of the yellow book as he spoke, “it was for finding a coping mechanism, for _me!_ If you’d let me, I could show-”

“That’s not a no!”

Sportacus made yet another attempt for the paperback. “I’m just trying to understand you better, and you’re not talking to me… I got it on an impulse, hoping I’d find something useful. That’d be help for us both.”

Robbie drew the book away before he could snatch it from him. “And then you hid it, in my home to find!”

“No, I, I, I didn’t think this would happen,” he sighed and shook his head, letting his arms fall to his sides.

Robbie wanted to ask him how he’d thought that that could’ve possibly worked out. Seeing as he’d put it away where Robbie was sure to find it eventually. He scowled at him.

Sportacus appeared to change his tactic of approach. The gesture was meant to be disarming, that he was sure of. “Robbie, I’m very sorry about this, it was stupid, and I should have told you immediately,” he said softer and calmly. Slow careful strides, arms open and a warm expression on his face. The calm semblance of advancing on a skittish and angry creature that Robbie felt every part of.

And that’s how to his horror he realized that the man wasn’t going for the book anymore, but for him.

 

How dared he?! _How dared he_ plaster on a mask like that and downplay it all?! Robbie dodged away from the outstretched hands. “ _Don_ _’t touch me_ ,” he hissed and put more distance between them. The startled expression on the man’s face made him realize that he’d more than danced out of his grip, but momentarily out of sight, his voice echoing in the cavernous room with more force than even he’d thought. Bouncing and crackling like electricity in the air.

 

“Robbie?” Voice small, scared.

“Shut it.”

 

With a flick of his wrist Robbie tossed the paperback towards the man, who caught it and held it against his chest. Looking hesitant of what to do with it now that he had it.

What was this feeling he felt taking place of the raging fire that had previously swept over him? Hurt, that was it. He loved Sportacus. Really actually _loved_ him. And that’s why it cut so deep.

 

He cleared his throat before he tried his voice again. “I think you should leave.”

Sportacus jerked his head in a negative, his lips a thin bloodless line.  

Robbie grit his teeth. Was it so hard for the elf to understand that he was the last person on earth that he wanted to see? What Robbie wanted, was to be alone, to be in peace where he could curse his name and cry in a fetal position. It took everything he had to keep his voice from cracking and turn into a screech, but he managed somehow. “Okay, then I’ll leave,” he said. “There are apples in the basket on the counter, if you want any,” Robbie huffed and passed by the elf, heading for the exit. He needed to get out of here. Before he said something really stupid. He could be cruel when he wanted to, and it was a more than tempting alternative. But, he loved the elf, heaven help him, he did.

“Where are you going?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Somewhere, anywhere.” Anywhere where he didn’t have to look at Sportacus.

“It’s December,” he argued, but didn’t make any physical move to stop Robbie.

He pointedly grabbed his padded vest and a scarf without looking.

 

Not until he’d walked ten yards topside did he realize that he’d taken Sportacus’ blue and white knitted scarf.

It was one week before Christmas and the town had since long been adorned with various festive Christmas decorations. The faux giant candy canes had been a huge let-down for Robbie and Ziggy equally on that specific point and he gave a kick in their general directions in passing. The fir tree in the town square glowing bright and he turned his back on it with a scoff to trudge further along the empty streets, not feeling any type of seasonal spirit of any kind.  

The townspeople were so used by Robbie’s aimless roaming in the late hours that no one would spare a second thought if they were to look outside their windows and spot Robbie’s agitated state.

 

Eventually he had stopped and slumped down on a park bench under the harsh lucent streetlamp. Giving up on trying to warm his hands in his armpits he stuck them down into the vest’s pockets. The numb fingers of his left hand came into contact with something already occupying the pocket and he extracted a piece of wrinkly paper.

A receipt from Mayhem Jewellery. He should honestly just go back there and cancel the order, they were running late on their delivery anyway. Way too late.

 

What a joke. The paper slip in his grip crinkled in his fist. He bit back a sob.

He had been waiting for a row like this to happen eventually.

It had been over a year and they hadn’t even talked about moving in together. Random objects of each other’s, but nothing serious. Instead, just, existing in a vacuum, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And that it had, hard.

Maybe some things happened for a reason after all.

 

‘ _Should have told you immediately_ ’ Sportacus words replayed. How long had the man felt like that then, he asked himself. When had he gotten the thing? How long had he thought about it _before_ he got it? Maybe Robbie was mental after all, enough to have fooled himself that everything was alright, when things hadn’t been at all.

He rubbed his face and came off with wet clumps of two, maybe even three, day long remains of makeup that’d now started to clump and bother his eyes. It was time to head back to his lair. Whether it was empty or not. If Sportacus was still there, then so be it. All fight had left his body.

 

Silently he sneaked down the entrance of his home, this time purposely using what had been gifted him by chance and people who should’ve known far better, to go undetected by his boyfriend. If he would still be it after this.

To his surprise he found the main lights still on and the recliner empty, where Sportacus would normally be whenever he stayed the night.

Maybe he had left the lair after all and Robbie had been too caught up staring at his feet treading through the snow to notice.

Evidently, the elf had left the damn book behind. Lying on the floor and sticking out like a sore thumb against the dark metallic flooring.

He didn’t have the energy to deal with it and walked over and past it as he shed his outerwear. Fingers and face feeling prickly as blood started to flow and flesh warm up indoors again. Legs were still numb, but they’d get with the program soon enough.

 

This was the part where he should drown his sorrows in a pint of ice cream and sob into it, right?

Then he’d drop a toaster in the tub… If he’d had a toaster. He knew that he had some ice cream at least, so there was that.

 

Decision made to get the frozen treat he rounded the corner of the counter, noting that there was one less ruby red apple, before he froze in his step when he caught sight of the collapsed figure on the kitchen area floor. He launched back into action as the sight registered that no he wasn’t imagining things.

“Sportacus?!”

 

Sportacus was lying unmoving on the ground and completely unresponsive when he turned him on his back to examine him. He was still breathing, but he was pale, and cold and clammy to the touch. Robbie’s knees stuck on something sticky and his gaze followed the trail five feet away to find its source. Having rolled away from Sportacus when he’d had a meltdown and trailed by sugary residue, was a candy apple.

Swearing, Robbie scrambled to his feet and flung the door open to the fridge. Rummaging around for Sportacus’ sportscandy, suspecting that the rest of the red apples in the basket were all candy apples. It was the only thing that made sense.

He found some pears and went back down on his knees to cradle his head to hold one against the sports elf’s mouth. The usual subconscious reflex did not occur. Usually, the automatic reaction equally fascinated him and made him squeamish, it was too much like a baby blindly seeking out source of nourishment. However, the complete absence of it, was tenfold worse. He tried another one, and another. Eventually running out of everything he had in his home that passed under the label of sportscandy.

“C’mon,” he growled under his breath, trying to wedge his mouth open to jam some grapes in. The man’s jaws were locked to his surprise. This was completely new. “I made a promise, you can’t do this to me. Please, don’t do this to me.”

 

On a whim Robbie had made a promise, a binding one that he had no idea really how it worked, to never trick him into a meltdown ever again. And, this was no meltdown like he’d ever seen before. Worse than the one back in Iceland. Then, the elf had been responsive to touch and sound. Now, Sportacus was completely dead to the world. He felt ill at the choice of words.

The elf was heavy as he tried to lift him and move the unconscious body to the recliner. He couldn’t let him lie on the cold floor just like that. In the warm light of the floor-lamp he looked even sicker, ashen and chest rising in shallow expansions. Robbie swallowed hard, his mind racing one mile a minute.

If this was a curse, then this was the perfect way of executing it. He’d thought that a binding promise with its magic mumbo-jumbo would exact retribution on the person that had made the promise and then broken it. Promise on your life and you’d bite the dust. But, this was so, so, much worse.

 

On unsteady legs he dragged himself back to the kitchen area to inspect the apple closer.

He picked up the tacky round thing and eyeballed it. It was off, by closer look he saw the syrupy liquid sluggishly bleed out from where the man had taken a sizeable bite.

It ran clear.

His frown deepened. Robbie’s caramel apples were, well, of caramel at the core. The candy apples innards being made out of traditional soft caramel, and a few other sweets as well, but, the result was always the same. Red crisp apple outside, brown caramel inside.

He stuck a finger into the clear gunk and tentatively brought it to his mouth.

The raw amount of sugar burned on his tongue and he gagged, it was too much even for him.

Robbie dropped it to the floor, staring wide-eyed, as something came back to him.

At the back of his throat invading his senses, in a hotel in a strange coastal town. He’d tasted it before he realised. The concoction, still unbeknownst to him then, being in its unfinished form.

 

Furious, he rose up to his feet and approached the basket. With an outcry he clawed his way to the bottom of it, not caring about the sticky fake apples or where they landed as he encountered a flat dark object on the very bottom. He drew his lips back and hissed at the lens. So there had been a hidden camera after all.

Another testimony to life’s peculiar, and by peculiar he meant awful absolutely horrendous, sense of humour.

 

The phone rang. It was just too fitting to be chance. No one ever called him.

 

His voice was dripping with acid as he answered it with a, “ _what do you want?_ ”

“Hello,” a familiar voice replied, in turn saturated with false amity, “glad to see that the refined version of SIC works as it should, you know I was a little unsure there for a while. But, that look on your face, wow.” Like they were discussing the weather.

“What do you want, Glanni? _Name it_.”

“Well, money for starters.”

“Done.” For starters? What else could he want?

“And, I need you to get me a little something. Something that’ll make all my problems go away.”

Robbie rubbed his brow and cast a glance over at the unconscious man in the recliner. “What?”

“Ever heard of a wishing stone? The elf for your money and the stone.”

“What?! I’ll give you all I have, I’ll do the transaction, okay? But, stone? What?” His voice rising in pitch. “Glanni!?” 

“I believe they call it an  _Óskasteinn_.”

Icelandic. “It’s nothing I’d find in America, is it?”

“Nope. Baula Mountain. And, time is scarce to get it.”

“Not happening. I’ll send the mone-”

“ _Ah-pap ap_ ,” he interjected, “is that a no I hear? Pity. Oh well, I suppose he wasn’t that important after all. Have fun with your comatose lover.”

“Glanni, don’t you dare-!” A click and a flat dial tone. “… Disconnect.”

 

Robbie smashed the phone into pieces and screamed in rage.

 

Sportacus hadn’t reacted in the slightest at the close racket and outcry. Robbie sat down by his feet and buried his hands covered in the tacky gunk in his hair as he started to rock back and forth. He shouldn’t have done that. He really shouldn’t have done that. Glanni had been baiting him and would try to contact him again later, when there was no phone left to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guesssssssss who's back to throw a wrench in everyone's plans?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scorpion and the Frog.  
> But, who's who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, getting that pov, because misery.

‘ _Don_ _’t touch me!_ ’

It hit him worse than any physical blow could’ve possibly done.

The flash of unbridled fury and _hurt_ he’d caught on the other’s face.

To make it even worse, there was magic behind as well, the traces lingering between them, an unconscious outburst. The enraged man had slipped just out of reach and materialised on the other side of the main area in a blink. The words bouncing around the room and in his mind, making his knees weak and momentarily stupefied.

Robbie was trying to protect himself, from _him_.

 

For a moment the other looked almost as shocked as he himself felt, but the ire returned as he spat at him to shut up.

Robbie had tossed the book at him before he’d had the chance to try to say anything again. Not that he could. Sportacus was near to speechless. He couldn’t even voice his objection to leaving. Scared that if he did then he’d never get to tell him how sorry he was. All he’d managed to force out of his tight throat had been the name of the month, implying the chill outside if Robbie was to walk out into the snow at this hour, when it became clear that if he wouldn’t leave the lair, then the resident would instead. 

 

The door hatch shut with an audible clang from topside.

 

The bright yellow stung in his eyes when he looked down at his hands.

 

He’d found it in the local book store while helping Stephanie picking out a gift for Pixel’s upcoming birthday... And Stephanie to help Sportacus pick out a gift in turn. You can’t give your friendship every time, or hygienic products, apparently. Or, as Robbie had called him, ‘ _a_ _one_ _trick pony_ ’. Accompanied by, ‘ _nobody, and I mean nobody, wants a toothbrush for their birthday_ _’._ Sportacus’ own argument and reminder of Ziggy’s sixth birthday taffy chaos being disregarded.

That’s where he’d seen it. In a small bookstore. The title was as crude as could be, he’d grimaced at the provocative wording, but it had done its job and caught his attention none the less.

Robbie could be… Difficult at times, manageable, but it was taking its toll on him. Unlike when they had been acquaintances and then lovestruck lovers, reality had slowly started to seep in.

And, the issues in their relationship wasn’t something that you could shake off at the end of the day. Especially if you stayed over at _its_ place at the end of the day.

 

It went without saying that the man had a temper, both for good and bad. He made it look so easy. Robbie would explode over something, and then just like that, he’d gotten it out of his system and carried on with his day, leaving a confused and somewhat shell shocked Sportacus to gape in awe.

The man was vocal about his feelings and opinions. If there was something he didn’t like, you’d know about how, why and its postal code. It was even more intense when it came to things that he actually liked and with Sportacus himself having been a newer addition to them some time ago. About his disguises, cake, former heists and ploys. He couldn’t perhaps relate to all of it, especially the trickery and unhealthy eating habits.

Hand on heart, it made him feel somewhat exhausted in a way that he’d never thought he’d feel. And, that in turn made him feel ashamed.

 

But, there was more to it. There were other times when Robbie could be… Distant. Not physically, oh no, he was _very_ present, but there were some things that he _didn_ _’t_ let Sportacus in on. That was what worried him.

He wasn’t stupid, he knew that there were things that bothered him, and the fact that Robbie didn’t seem to trust him, well, it hurt.

Sportacus didn’t know if it was depression, or something else. As far as he knew, Robbie hadn’t had any mental health assessments done. He had this facial tic when he was stressed or emotional, that could become full bodied if he was stressed out enough. Aversion to outer loud noises and motions. And somewhat socially inept that could make both parties involved frustrated. Then there was Robbie’s magical abilities that the man seemed almost irked by, almost in conflict with.

Sportacus had no idea on how to approach any of these things. He was good with motivating and nudging people towards happier and healthier choices of lifestyle. He wasn’t good with whatever was plaguing his boyfriend. Sportacus didn’t want to push him, and let the man take things in his own stride.

Taking the passive role in the romantic department was taxing in its own way. Robbie seemed happy with the current state of their relationship and though Sportacus wasn’t unhappy, he truly wasn’t, he wanted to move forward. Standing on the side-lines was driving him crazy. But, he waited. And grew more disquiet.

 

Stephanie asked something from the other side of the shelves and he gave her a quick positive answer of her findings, while he caved in and quickly leafed through the book on display. Some of the topics struck a more than familiar note and the tips were far more serious, and thoughtful, than the gaudy cover had made it out to be.

 

While Stephanie was preoccupied he’d made the purchase and put it away before she’d ask questions, already feeling guilty.

 

In the early hours of the morning before the town had woken up, save for him, he occasionally leafed through it. Though the advices and topics were good, there wasn’t really any that brought his own unique problem to light. Nothing that he didn’t already know anyway. Be patient, don’t take mood swings personally, don’t expect them to be _cured_ , show support and love, and so on. The disquieting feeling grew. This was all he did already. What he needed was a way of confrontation. Robbie had been more secretive lately, something with the mail. It could be a Christmas present he’d ordered, he didn’t know, but his boyfriend wasn’t, as usual, talking when he’d asked if something was the matter.

And then his family had sent a letter, not a message, a formal paper plane letter, and he’d forgotten all about the book.

Having Robbie worry over him had been... An odd experience, all things considered. He welcomed the gesture and the comfort, clumsily offered as it might have been, he did appreciate it. Sportacus wasn’t as much grieving as he was upset. Not something he could explain to his partner, when he himself didn’t know how to voice it. Perhaps _this_ was how Robbie felt?

 

He’d rarely seen anyone in his family cry. The funeral had been one of the few exceptions. Emil had been one hundred and seventy-six, not young, but the troubling thing was how he’d refused to tell anyone about his condition. The letter Sportacus had received had come as a complete surprise. He’d had no idea that his grandfather had been sick. Dying even. Not even Íþróttaálfurinn, Sportacus’ father, had known about it until the last stages, but had himself sworn not to tell anyone either.

But, with everything going on, someone had to be the stable one, and that was usually Sportacus.

The funeral had been, as he’d said, fine. Words of the impact the elf had had on the community, hard work, and loving family. It had been fine. The whole elven community in the Westfjords peninsula had attended, plus a handful from the Faroes Islands too. All tall dark and cordial in their own way.

Robbie could’ve easily have gone into that crowd, just hide the rounded tips of his ears and anyone else would’ve thought that he was one of them, even without a glamour.

He’d missed his boyfriend, he could’ve really done with the man’s wit and affection, but Robbie hadn’t wanted to come with him, though Sportacus had to admit that he’d had ample of time before the departure to ask him and let the idea sink in.

It didn’t help that his aunt was pestering him on where his _human_ lover was during all this and everyone asking how they were faring. Seeing as they’d made quite a scene when Robbie had, more or less, crashed Sportacus’ wedding. He’d spotted Frída with his cousin Tomás, however he never got time to exchange more than pleasantries with them. And, there was a detail that made him give pause, so he gave them his well wishes and they their condolences, and that was that.  

Funny, sometimes he felt lonely in LazyTown, he didn’t have anyone to talk to about his building frustration with his relationship. The children meant well, however, they were children. Milford and Bessie were the only other adults in town that he was close to, but the couple’s own strange relationship made it hard and neither of them were exactly confidant material.

And then when he was surrounded by his family, he felt almost just as lonely.

If you had personal troubles, you dealt with it. No need to bring others down along. That’s why he hadn’t known about the elder’s passing until the letter after all.

 

And after _that_ , he’d come back home to LazyTown.

 

He’d been filled in by the town children on what he’d missed during the week. Which wasn’t much. Robbie had been grouchy and not out of his lair. Again, nothing too out of the ordinary.

Carrying down the large package that had been left outside the chute, Sportacus saw the chaos.

Finding Robbie asleep long after noon was nothing new. The tall man had chronic insomnia and had trouble falling asleep. He was a light sleeper as well, however if he was left to it he’d set back and ruin any normal rhythm what so ever. So, Sportacus would gladly wake him up, even if the sleeping man didn’t appreciate it.

But, it was the state of the man and his surroundings that disheartened him.

Robbie was well off, he’d found a way to make himself economically independent by making a living out of his hobby of tinkering that didn’t require a degree. Yet the mountains of invoices, some unopened, other opened, and annihilated, were stacking everywhere and going unpaid with him not finding the energy or the discipline to deal with the less enjoyable aspects of regular life. There were overflowing trash, heaps of clothes and abandoned sewing and mechanical projects. And then there was Robbie in the middle of it all. Looking unkept and strained even in sleep. Faded makeup and strands of hair coming lose from his favoured coiffure.

Robbie must’ve gone into one of his periods -that he refused to talk about.

It was almost ironic how the first thing Robbie did when he’d woken up was to fuss over Sportacus of all people. The physical contact was more than nice though. He’d really missed him.

He was here, and he’d help the other sort his home out. However, that would have to wait for a bit. He’d promised the kids a game of bandy after he’d visited Robbie, and Robbie in turn seemed eager to open the box he’d gotten. Maybe, afterwards they could talk, about, well, everything really.

 

That didn’t happen, not the way he’d thought anyway.

 

Another thing Sportacus wasn’t good with, was anger. Few things did make him angry. At most, irritated and exasperated, but proper actual fury? It didn’t happen often, and he was glad over that. Anger made him say things he didn’t mean and act in a way that filled him with shame afterwards. It had happened when he’d woken up in the backseat of a strange car and thought Robbie to be the perpetrator. When he’d been just as much a victim as he’d been.

If need be, he would find some space where he could unwind through physical means. A hard work out, or free running, it helped clear his head and sort through his feelings.

 

That’s what he should have done after he’d saved the mailman.

 

He’d been on his way back to Robbie’s lair when his crystal had alerted him of someone being in trouble and he immediately spotted what was wrong. The bike went careening down a snowy street, the man not seeming to get any traction to stop. The vehicle was to slide sideways when he encountered an icy patch and send the poor man the other way. Catching him before he went down was no great feat, but the man clung to him in a worrying way when he saw who had saved him.

“Oh, it’s you!” he almost sobbed in relief. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Are you alright?” he asked the jittery man.

“Now that you’re back, I am! That Mr. Rotten, he’s been a menace in your absence. He’s been making my rounds a living hell, I dare say.”

Somewhat surprised, he asked him to elaborate.

“He’s been harassing me whenever I near his mail chute. Being very unkind and lying in wait for me.”

“Of course,” Sportacus sighed, feeling disappointment set in.

The mailman picked up his bike and looked hopefully at him. “You’ll deal with him, won’t you?”

“I’ll talk with him,” he said and nodded.

 

The lair was, if anything, messier than when he’d left it a couple of hours ago. He passed by the remains of the box and approached Robbie staring mindlessly at the Television, an empty platter on the side table with what looked like chocolate crumbs.

Something ugly brewed in him.

The whole place could be imploding on itself and Robbie would not give a damn.

 

If there was even one useful thing he’d picked up, then he’d done the complete opposite.

There was a moment of calm, where he thought that it was over. Robbie had defended himself against the mailman’s allegations and pointed out that Sportacus should have asked sooner, as he too knew he should’ve, that he’d wanted Robbie to accompany him to Iceland.

And then Robbie had said something careless and completely unnecessary to set Sportacus off again. He knew that he hadn’t liked Emil that much, but to disregard Sportacus’ family, his grief at the loss of a man that had always been there when his own father was out on missions? How could he be so… So uncaring? 

Sportacus had done everything he shouldn’t have done. He’d wound the man up, surprising even himself with the arguments and issues that bubbled up from within him. Things he’d kept silent until they’d festered and grown. Robbie’s aversion to talk about his family, his asocial behaviour, how Sportacus was worried. Things he’d wanted to talk with Robbie about, but was now spilling past his lips in frustration instead.

 

The dark look and poison in Robbie’s voice was the only warning that he’d crossed a line and that’s when his head momentarily cleared for him to realize how badly he’d messed up.

 

Robbie had found the book.

Sometime during his absence the past days he’d found it, and he was righteously furious.

 

Whatever lingering anger he had was instantly replaced by a cold hand gripping his heart. Sportacus had tried to explain himself. He’d spoken the truth and nothing but the truth. It was stupid of him and he was sorry for it.

And then he’d made yet another stupid move and Robbie had recoiled from him.

 _That’s_ when he realised just how utterly and horrendously he’d _screwed up_.

 

Now? Now, he was alone in the lair, letting it all sink in. His passiveness had brought them here.

Instead of finding a way to work things out, he’d hurt Robbie.

He fought back the instinct to go after him. The other man had made it clear that he didn’t wish his company, and who could blame him?

He was, if anything, surprised that Robbie had let him in into his underground home in the first place, when he all this time had known. With hollow eyes he stared down at the object in his hands and dropped it, cursing himself.

 

The hours passed, and Robbie still hadn’t returned. Keeping his mind and hands occupied, he juggled a couple of the red apples between his hands. It was past eight and exhaustion burned behind his eyes. He was probably waiting for Sportacus to leave his lair so that he could enter it without having to deal with another confrontation, or Sportacus’ apologies, despite how earnest they may be.

He should leave, he’d overstayed his welcome, that much was clear. With a sigh, he put the apples back, save for the last that he caught mid-air. He’d take one of the offered fruits at least. Even if it felt wrong, but he also felt wrung out and needed the energy to make the final climb to his own home.

He bit down, tearing a chunk between his teeth.

The sticky sugary taste made his head instantly swim. A sugar apple? A strong metallic taste penetrated the glucose. He’d bit down onto something hard along with the liquid and his jaw locked up.

 

He was out cold before he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the this particular story? Learn how to communicate dammit!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation Get Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter than initially thought, but ehhh, it was fun writing it.

For lack of better words, Robbie was pretty close to freaking out completely. After the initial panic had subsided, it had come back full force, and brought some friends along with it. Sportacus wasn’t looking too good. And it was getting worse, slowly but surely. At first, Robbie thought that it was his panicky mind doing him in. The slow red flash pulsing from the crystal’s casing, signalling low energy, told him, no, it was definitely getting worse.

It was arguable whether it was necessity, or fear, that was mother of all invention, but Robbie was desperate enough to try a more traditional way of communication and prayed that it would work. He held a paper sheet in front of the camera. ‘ _Phone_ _’s broken_.’ Then flipped to the other side. ‘ _I hate you_.’ The red lamp in the corner of the camera flickered. He picked up another sheet. ‘ _What did you do to him?!_ _’_ The lamp blinked rapidly, this time more purposely in even intervals.

Pulling a face, he wrote on a new sheet and held it up. ‘ _Blink once for yes, twice for no_.’ “Wiggle your left big toe for me to pull the plug,” he seethed under his breath. He wasn’t sure if there was an attached mic to the thing, not yet. This time the lamp did blink once. Well, that was good then. Despite his abysmal situation, not all was lost. Though, now he was stuck in a quasi-one-way communication feed. “Can you hear me?” he said behind the sheet. Nothing.

He wielded the one asking what Glanni had done to Sportacus again, only to receive two blinks.

Robbie swore as he wrote down and displayed some excessively cruder words and insults to the lens, not sure if he’d spelled some of them right, but the bastard should get the hint either way of just what he thought of him.

He was to write on a new paper when the crystal began beeping and Robbie yelled in queue with it. Was Sportacus’ condition worsening?! “What?! No! Oh no, no, no, shush you!” Covering over the lens with the papers in his hurry to look up on Sportacus.

He’d looked bad when he’d found him, but the man was now stark white, a film of perspiration on his brow that had knitted as if in pain. What the hell had Glanni actually done to make the concoction this fatal?! Processed sugars were the elven equivalent to kryptonite, Robbie knew that better than most, and then his _brother_ had found a way to weaponize it on a whole new level. Making Robbie’s own sugar apples look like bangers compared next to Glanni’s Synthesised Glucose, a freaking Nuclear bomb.

Time was scarce. Robbie didn’t know if Glanni had meant Sportacus’ state or Robbie’s own time frame to meet the demands. Either way, he didn’t have opportunity, or the luxury, to ask, not with how everything was rapidly spiralling to hades.

Maybe fear wasn’t mother of all inventions, but it sure was fodder for crazy last-ditch inspirations. There was one other night owl in LazyTown, that had the thing Robbie needed to buy himself some more time. Literally.

He drew back his upper lip in old habit as he thought, weighing his options.

The crystal repeated the noise and he made up his mind.

“Don’t you dare, you stupid blue elf… Sorry, I didn’t mean that.” He stopped to press his lips against his forehead. “I love you.”

_Just in case_.

 

Robbie waved a finger in warning. “Don’t die while I’m gone, or else!”

Then, he scrambled for the exit and out into the snow, not caring about the cold.

 

There was a faint flickering cold light coming from behind the blinds. So, the brat was still up after all. He crammed snow in his hands to form a ball, numbing his hands in the process, but that was the least of his worries. He aimed and threw it at the window.

 

Effectively hitting the wrong window with enough force for the pane of glass to crack. Must have been some gravel and ice in the packed snow. “ _Oups_ …”

 

The window flung open and a man stuck his head out. “What is going o-? _Mr. Rotten?!_ ”

“Uh,” drat, _parents_ , “hi, Mr. Hyperbyte? And… Mr. Hyperbyte?” he added as a second head popped up behind the first one to see what was going on. The men glared down at him. “I need to speak to Pixel, _now!_ ” Pay no mind that a grown man was demanding to se their son in the middle of the night, looking like he’d been in a fight with a sugar refinery and lost, severely.

“You just broke our window! And it’s three in the morning! It’s a school day!”

 

“Robbie?”

 

He focused all his attention on the pyjama clad boy in favour of completely ignoring the angry couple. “Pixel! I need…” Damnit, why was it so hard? “I need your _help!_ Well, specifically, I need the remoty controly three thousand!”

“You mean the Remote Controller _six_ thousand? …Why?” The boy squinted at him. “What’s going on? Why do you need it?”

Robbie felt that he was about ready to scale the building and get the machine himself, rather than arguing with a child, whilst trying to make his voice heard over the couple realising that their son was staying up this late. “Not for _me_. It’s, argh. It’s Sportacus!” He could probably use the drainpipe to get up to the window.

That was apparently all the explanation the kid needed. “Alright, I’m coming!”

All three adults objected. Though, the kid’s parents might’ve had a different reason than Robbie.

Not that they could stop the boy, as he came barrelling out the front door, struggling a parka over his green pyjamas while shoving the old invention into a backpack.

Robbie didn’t waste any further time on niceties or goodbyes. Pixel wasn’t his kid, the Hyperbytes would have to deal with this themselves, after he’d gotten what he’d wanted out of the techie, then they would be free to ground him for the next twenty or so years coming.

“What happened?” Pixel asked through laboured breaths as he was running to keep up with Robbie. “What happened to Sportacus?”

“He’s… He’s sick,” he managed to force out when they reached the entrance, himself being out of breath since long ago, his lungs burning.

“What did you do?” That struck too close to home.

“ _Nothing!_ I did nothing!” And he jumped down the shaft before Pixel could argue any further.

 

The noise in his lair was ear-splitting. The crystal was going off like a top fuel Dragster. Pixel came out behind him, covering his ears under the headset that never seemed to come off otherwise.

“What are you waiting for?! Rewind him, pause, _anything!_ ” he cried over the blaring.

Whatever stupor Pixel had been in at the alarming sight he snapped out of it quickly. He flung the bag off his shoulders to get the handheld machine out of his backpack and pointed it towards the recliner. “And, pause!” Pixel hit the stop button on the control remote.

The lair went unnervingly quiet. Save for the sound of Robbie’s heart drumming in his ears and his wheezing.

“What…?” The kid was at loss for words.

Robbie gulped. “ _Sugar Induced Coma_. Like a sugar meltdown, but worse,” he said. As in, _on steroids worse_. He wobbled over to the now frozen man. That had been close, he realised. A few more minutes and… His hands were shaking like leaves as he braced himself on the armrests to lean over to inspect him. “Can you rewind him?” He tried not to let hope seep in through the cracks, but it was worth a shot.

Pixel pressed another button and frowned. “I can only rewind him a few minutes. Ten minutes, tops.”

Of course, that was what hoping for miracles got you. The expression on Sportacus' face had shifted from agony to the mask of distress he’d had when Robbie had run to fetch the remote control. It would have to be enough. It _had_ to be enough. He sank down onto the floor and let out a long sigh of relief.

 

Pixel watched him, shifting his weight to shove his foot back into one of his shoes that had nearly come off, both his sneakers untied in their haste to get here, Robbie idly noted from his position.

He should send the boy back home. He’d done his part.

The boy in turn, seemed to have other thoughts. “What can we do now?” he asked, slowly approaching to take a closer look at his hero, cut off from the rest of the world.

“ _We?_ ” Robbie shook his head at him. “No thank you, I got this.” He tiredly waved in a dismissive motion. “You can go home.”

It didn’t look like he believed him, seeing as he scrunched up his face and argued back. “Uhu, or I could just tell the guys that you got Sportacus into a serious meltdown.”

He got back up on his feet to tower over Pixel. “I told you.” Pixel gripped the fabric of the recliner on the opposite side for cover. “I. Didn’t. Do it,” he seethed. To the kid’s credit, he recovered pretty quickly from the attempted intimidation. It had been so much easier when they were around eight nine years old, now they’d gotten used to him.

Instead, his hands gripped harder onto the faux fur of the chair and glared up at him over Sportacus’ static frame with vindication. “Then who did?”

“Someone who lacks style and finesse.” There were more colourful words and descriptions on the tip of his tongue, but refrained from using them in the presence of a twelve-year-old. As well as explaining the complexity of the relationship he had towards the monster. “A thug,” he said instead.

The vague answer earned him a scrutinising glare from the computer whiz and a low hum.

“It’s true,” he argued.

 

So, the kid wasn’t leaving. Fine then, he groused. Robbie didn’t have the mental strength to argue. What damage could one kid do? That was just asking to jinx it… ‘ _Think Robbie, think_ ,’ he badgered himself, as he reclaimed his position on the floor by Sportacus’ feet to figure out what he should do next.

Pixel seemed to take the lack of protests as acceptance and remained by the recliner to hover over the hero. After poking Sportacus and deepening his frown, he left their side. Robbie wasn’t paying that much attention to what he was doing.

Until the kid ventured further into his lair, towards the basked he’d left on the counter, probably spotting the wreckage there.

Getting a bit too close to the basket for Robbie’s comfort, he, regrettably, left his spot once again. “Don’t touch that basket,” he warned.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not alone.” That came out sounding ominous. It had the desirable effect however and Pixel drew back from it with a wide-eyed look. “Told you, I’m not the one behind this. There’s a camera in the basket- _And do not touch it, are you deaf?!_ ” With two long strides, he grabbed him by the shoulder to yank him back. At the word ‘ _camera_ ’ the boy had approached the basket again and was to lift one of the papers covering the lens.

“But, I-” Pixel protested.

He growled, “no. No touching it whatsoever.” Robbie didn’t know what would happen if Glanni saw that Robbie had gotten help. He’d probably laugh himself to tears at the sight of Robbie getting help from a kid, but he wasn’t taking chances. “Touch it and I’ll tell that pink girl that you _like_ like her.” Two could play at this game.

“I… How did you…?” Pixel’s mouth closed and opened, looking like a fish out of water. ‘ _Pixel dot exe has encountered a problem and forced to shut down,_ ’ Robbie thought, finding small comfort in the flabbergasted expression. He hadn’t completely lost his touch. A small hurrah for Mr. Rotten.

“I have my ways,” he said, his voice sounding more matter-of-factly than the gloating he was initially aiming for.

The boy snapped his mouth shut and took a few deliberate steps away from the counter to instead divert his attention to the sticky mess of candy apples. “So, uh,” he fumbled, “are these sugar apples?” trying to change topic and leaving the camera alone in favour of inspecting the apples.

“Yup.”

“Can I have a closer look at these then?”

“Take one.” Ignoring the voice in the back of his head going, ‘ _two sets of eyes are better than one_ ,’ sounding all too smug. “Not that it’s going to do you any good,” he said, just to spite it.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Pixel hummed and picked one that had survived Robbie’s temper. Pursing his lips, he flipped down his visor and turned and twisted the red thing one way and the other. “I could run some tests to see just what they are made out of.”

He already knew the key ingredient. “It’s synthesised glucose,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

“And traces of Alnico alloys…” Pixel said absently.

Robbie blinked. “How’d you know that?”

Pixel ignored his question and merely tapped the side of his headgear in demonstration. So, the thing was for more than aesthetics?

“And here I thought it was just a stupid looking pair of headphones.”

Pixel ran his index finger with the weird clip accessory over the surface. “Your face is stupid,” he mumbled under his breath.

“ _Excuse me?!_ ”

“Nothing,” he squeaked, realizing that Robbie had heard him and put the apple down on another counter with more force than necessary. Oh, he was absolutely going to tell Stephanie about Pixel’s awkward crush for this.

But for now, he’d let it slide.

It looked like the techie was still of use to him.

“Fine,” he rubbed his face, feeling a plan set into motion, “ _we_ _’re_ gonna have to get Nine here.” It was the only person he could think of.

“Nine?” Pixel asked and flipped the visors back onto his forehead.

“The hero that was here long before Sporty,” he elaborated. “His dad.”

His eyebrows rose high in wonder at the information. “You think he can help?”

“I sure hope so... Just got to get up there to send the message.” Robbie had once had a Voice Changer, but he’d accidentally broken it when he’d utilized it for the first, and the last, time after getting flung out of the airship. He’d never gotten around to fixing it, and he’d never seen reason to. Until now, but _now_ was too late. “We need to get in the blimp.” He was already regretting this, but what other choice did he have? He needed the outside assistance, and he’d rather it’d be another numbered hero, than a bunch of kids that hadn’t even hit puberty yet.

“I can do that, easy.”

 

In hindsight, this did nowhere near qualify as a good idea.

The ladder swayed in the breeze and he swallowed, trying to force down his heart back to where it belonged. Pixel didn’t wait around for Robbie to find his courage for the climb and started on the rungs before him.

That remote controller was far more useful than he’d given it credit. He shuddered for more than one reason.  

He snapped out of it and grasped the rungs as well. “How did you do that?” he asked, both out of genuine curiosity and to distract himself from the growing distance between them and the cold hard ground.

“It can tie and untie my shoes. I figured it worked the same with the ladder, can’t seem to lower the platform all the way though. Then again, I was only nine when I made it. There’s room for improvement, if I could get the symmetric right and the gravitational waves-”

“Okay, okay we get it!” he cut him off.

A gust of wind hit them and the ladder lurched to the side, along with Robbie’s stomach.

“ _I hate this, I hate this, I hate this_ ,” he whined while he clung to the rope ladder.

“This was your idea,” Pixel snapped from above him, his own voice sounding strained.

 

Robbie couldn’t wait to be back on terra firma again.

 

“Welcome,” a computerised female voice greeted them, and the light went on. Robbie screwed his eyes shut and blinked a couple of times against the cold light. While Robbie was adjusting his optics on how to see again, Pixel scrambled off the platform and onto the main deck, flicking down his visor to take in his environment through whatever was displayed on them.

Robbie refrained from any personal excursions. The ship and he weren’t exactly on agreeing terms. Whether it was docked on land or up in the air. Instead, he remained on the round platform, clinging to the pole attached to its centre. The less people wandering about, the better.

“Cool!” Pixel exclaimed, distracted by the new tech that he’d get to fiddle with. “A Virtual Intelligence!”

“Hey, don’t touch anything!”

“Relax, I got this,” he said and started to scan his closest surroundings.

Somehow that didn’t reassure Robbie in the slightest. The only thing that made sense to him in this death trap was the square sensor plate that activated the narrow bed. Everything else either set off sportscandy, or worse, sports equipment, flying towards your head. He had a talent for unwittingly setting those off, even if he’d still had the Voice Changer, which he didn’t, so their options were limited. Accidentally crashing the blimp, under current circumstances, would just be poor taste.

“Just, ugh, just find the controls for opening the glass pane to the left by the pilot seat.” He’d seen Sportacus do it a couple of times.

Pixel turned his head in the direction Robbie had mentioned and strode over there, every so other time he stopped and took a deliberate sidestep. Robbie could only guess that it was to avoid a sensor plate. Sportacus made it look so easy, the elf had the locations memorized and could freely walk, or in his case, flip, around as he wished.

“This is almost like a video game,” Pixel said and made another sidestep, and leapt forward.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that one of us is having a good time,” he spat. “Focus, would you?”

Reaching the containment up in the front of the ship, Pixel began scanning and running his hand over the wall and… The air? Robbie could only imagine what the kid saw. His mouth forming words, reading something Robbie couldn’t see, before he stilled.

 

“Hey, Robbie?”

 

Well, _that_ couldn’t be good. “Yes, did you find it?” If he had, then he would’ve opened the glass pane, instead of worrying questions.

“I think so… But… What does Elven Human Interaction Protocols mean?”

Oooh, crap. Robbie had failed to remember that detail. He didn’t even know there were _protocols_ for it. “Forget you saw that!” he barked. “That’s not what we’re here for!” Instead Pixel seemed lost in thought, scanning whatever he’d found. Crap, double crap!”

Pixel snapped up and looked around himself, his mouth slightly agape. “This is elven tech? Elves are _real?_ ”

“Of course not,” he protested against the obvious. “Ugh, yes.” Robbie’s shoulders sank in defeat and he hung his head. “But, don’t tell anyone.” When all else fails, appeal to their sense of loyalty and affection towards their hero. “It’s sensitive and very private information. So, don’t go telling people about this. He’d be _very_ disappointed.” Robbie highly doubted that the town would react negatively to the information. The place was already quirky, what was another addition to it? Though, he also doubted that the elf would be happy if he woke up to find out that his secret had spilt and spread like wildfire. Personally, Robbie would’ve wilfully slipped back into a coma if the town had found out what _he_ was.

“Oh, okay,” Pixel said with a nod, the implications sinking in, and _finally_ opened the glass panel.

“You got this?”

“Write a letter to Sportacus’ dad. Yeah, of course. Can’t see why you won’t do it though?”

“The ship has it out for me.”

“Because it’s elven?”

“I thought we agreed on you to forget about that. And, no.”

Pixel hefted down the powder blue bowling ball, grunting in surprise at the weight and nearly dropping it.

Robbie hunched down on instinct, prepared if a tennis racquet would try anything funny.

Pixel gingerly placed the ball down and fished out a sheet of paper and pen out of his back pack. Clicking the pen, he got down on his knees to start writing, using the flooring as support under the paper. “Number Nine isn’t his actual name is it? Sportacus is Number Ten, but like, nobody calls him that,” he asked, not looking up from his task.

No, that’s because it was his formal title, and Sportacus was the least formal person to exist, and insisted on the people he met to call him by his first name. Somehow the old wives’ tale of _Given_ and _Real names_ not applying to his kind, not the same way as it did to Robbie’s. “It’s Íþróttaálfurinn,” he said.

“How…” Pixel looked up from the paper and made a face. “How do you even spell that?”

“With great difficulty,” he lamented from his position by the pole. Actually, he didn’t know how to spell it either. “Just write Number Nine, tell him that it’s an emergency. That Glanni got Sportacus into a coma, and that we need him, preferably yesterday.”

“Who’s Glanni?”

“The ass who sent the sugar apples.” He covered his mouth when he realised that he had cussed in front of one of the kids. Pixel only snorted at him and gave him a tired look from behind his visor.

“I have free access to the internet. I overrode the parental security software ages ago,” he responded, sounding droll. Oh, right. That made sense. Pixel went back to writing. “Okay, and then what?”

“Make a paper plane out of it, slot it into the bowling ball and chuck it through that hole… Don’t look at me like that, it’s not my fault. This is all on Sportakook.” And people called Robbie eccentric. Sportacus was ridiculously proud of his witty name of it; _Bowling_ -mail. Which was not witty, at all. Cringey? Yes, definitely.

After wedging the paper plane into its designated fold, the boy seemed to hesitate. Looking down at the heavy bowling ball in his arms, to the covered hole in the wall and then up to Robbie. “I… I don’t know how to bowl,” he confessed.

Hadn’t Sportacus taught them every unholy sport under the sun already? “Neither do I. Just, get close to the hole and push it through, I suppose.”

Once again doing a ballet of avoiding sensors, Pixel hefted the blue globe to the hole and opened it with a few presses around the rim, doing whatever he did to bypass the motion sensors, so he could squat down and chuck it in in a two-handed throw.

“One letter to Sportacus’ dad, sent.” He straightened up. The boy cast a longing gaze over the ship’s interior. The tinkerer and inventor part of Robbie could somewhat sympathize with Pixel’s thirst to dissect and learn the new tech surrounding him. But, this wasn’t the time. “I bet I could lower the ship manually,” he declared.

 

Or maybe it was.

 

“I was wrong. This is worse,” Robbie complained as they made the slow descent.

Unlike Robbie, the kid wasn’t as accidentally-crash-the-blimp-prone. Small favours. “There’s a speed limiter device installed,” Pixel mused aloud from the pilot’s seat.

“Do _not_ touch that!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pixel has two dads fite me! And that boy is so grounded.
> 
> More characters to come soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrogations, Mr. Officer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More dialogue than you can shake a stick at.

“Go home.” Robbie trudged the short distance back to his own home from where they’d landed the blimp, trying to shoo away the boy.

“No,” was the stubborn answer.

And that had settled that.

 

With lack of anything better to do while they waited, he dozed off to and from. Finding solace in the short blissful moments of oblivion. He’d curled up on the rug with nothing but a pillow. Not wanting to infringe on Sportacus’ space, and after all that had gone down, it just felt wrong. He’d slept in worse places anyway. Out of a small sense of something useless but what felt important to him, he’d draped his own small comfort blankie over the man’s lap. Pixel hadn’t said anything about it, and Robbie preferred it that way.

One problem had been to ensure that the computer whiz wouldn’t try to go behind his back and fiddle with the obscured camera. As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to worry. He’d woken up to find the child napping near them during the small hours, nested in his parka and using the bag as substitute for head support. Pixel had been up all night as it was, probably not as bone tired as Robbie, but enough that he had succumbed to sleep as well. He crept up to the camera, finding it undisturbed from last he’d interacted with it and wrote a new sheet. ‘ _He_ _’s still alive, no thanks to you_.’ Whatever game Glanni was playing at, killing the bargaining chip, his security, made little to no sense. He held it up for a good whole minute before he covered the lens again. He didn’t know if Glanni had seen it, or if he recorded the feed, but it would have to do for now.

 

The next time he woke up fully, it was to the shrill outcry of a familiar girl’s voice. “Sportacus?! Oh my gosh, what happened to him?!”

“Pinkie?!” Robbie sputtered. Where had she come from?

Rolling over, he spotted the girl leaning over the hero, distraught.

“Stephanie?” Pixel got up as well.

“Pixel, we’ve been looking everywhere for you, but,” she looked down at Sportacus, “what happened?”

“It’s okay, I used the Remote Controller six thousand. He’s just on pause,” the other kid placated her.

She looked at him, then down at Robbie who was trying to find his bearings to face her. Out of all the town’s children, Stephanie was the one that was closest to Sportacus. “What did you do?”

Great, not this again. Robbie groaned and laid down flat on his back, covering his eyes behind the crook of his arm. “Pixel… If you would?” he said. If the techie insisted on staying around, he might as well deal with this. Whatever Robbie would say would probably set her off even more, she’d take her friend’s word before his any day. Just because he was dating Sportacus didn’t mean that she trusted him. If anything, she’d become more protective of the town’s hero. Planned date nights without the couple’s consent notwithstanding.

“Robbie came for me last night because Sportacus had eaten some serious sugar apples. Like, major meltdown. He’s completely shut down and it kept getting worse. We’re waiting for Number Nine,” he looked down at Robbie, who gave him a thumbs up at the recollection, “who might know how to help Sportacus.”

“Number Nine?” He could hear the lilt of recognition in her voice. “Uncle Milford has mentioned him. He was the hero before Sportacus.”

“He’s also Sportacus’ dad, and no, the order of numbers is just a happy coincidence,” Robbie filled in, getting up to a sitting position, now that the brunt of the heat had left her voice. He cast a quick look at his pocket watch. They should be in school. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“Pixel didn’t turn up and we got worried.”

“So, you’re all skipping class?” The teachers really didn’t have any control over the gremlins. He didn’t know if he should be gleeful over the act of rebellion towards something as boring and useless as school, or upset at the implications of the horde descending upon him any second. The last thing Robbie needed was the rest of the rag tag gang tumbling down the entrance and start running around like headless chickens, and throw accusations his way. Robbie was already doing a mighty fine job out of that, thank you very much.

“The others are investigating the airship.”

“Yes, we landed it here outsi-”

“No, no,” she interrupted him. “There’s a _new_ airship in the sky! A red one!” Throwing her arms out for emphasis. “It’s huge!”

 

Robbie and Pixel shared a look before they collectively scrambled for the ladder up the shaft.

“A zeppelin? Nice,” Pixel said at the sight of the new airship in the air, hovering over LazyTown.

It might be bigger than Sportacus’ own ship, but for a zeppelin, it was rather small. Then again, it was meant to be steered by a one-man crew. That didn’t make it any less imposing, however.

 

The recognizable chatter of the noise makers caught his attention and he whipped his head in search of its source.

Advancing upon them was the gaggle of children. The figure surrounded by them was what held his focus, walking in fast strides while humouring the curious kids with replies that didn’t quite get heard by Robbie until they got close enough. Number Nine. He left the maw of the entrance to meet him by the front.

 

Years ago, he had sabotaged the tube by the old mailbox, to keep this very man out of his town. What he’d gotten instead was _his son_ when Stephanie had uncorked it and sent for the closest hero that would… Play with her.

 

Again; Life had a peculiar sense of humour.

And visually taking in the man’s uniform in real life, Sportacus’ name made so much more sense now. Was that a _leather_   _breastplate?!_

 

The man looked tired, for a sports elf that was. He wasn’t flipping and somersaulting. “Ah, Robbie,” he greeted him when they had each other’s attention. His accent in a familiar lilt, and the lofty tone catching Robbie off guard. “You were right, there has been some changes around LazyTown. I recall there used to be a real house here.” He jabbed a thumb at the billboard. “And not a painted one.”

“It’s a long story,” he replied as he plastered on a smile that felt more as a death skull grin stretched across his features.

“I believe you. Now,” he turned to Stingy and Trixie, while patting Ziggy’s mop of hay coloured hair, “thank you for showing me around. It’s been too long since I was here last, but if you excuse me, I need to speak to Robbie.” He smiled and winked at them as they, somewhat reluctantly, scattered.

 

Out of sight and hearing of the children, his expression got somber.

 

A chill ran down his spine and Robbie were, once again, having second thoughts about this.

 

“Where’s Sportacus?” His eyes searching his own. “ _Where’s my son?_ ”

 

 _‘Oh boy_.’

 

“This way.” He ushered, before the kids returned. “Uhm, don’t panic when you see him. He’s _supposed_ to not breathe.”

“What?”

“You better see for yourself.”

Pixel and Stephanie’s heads disappeared down the shaft before Robbie even got the chance to protest. Fine, fine, fine, _fine!_ Let them! He slammed the lid shut after him to keep the rest out. Two were bad enough. Let one in and the rest would squirrel their way in too soon after. As the pink one was proof enough of.

 

He’d tried to forewarn Íþróttaálfurinn of the sight that would greet him. But, apparently, that hadn’t been enough to prepare the older man of what he’d find.

 

“I thought you said he was in a sugar induced coma,” Íþróttaálfurinn said at the sight, bracing over the lifeless form of his son. “What on earth is this?” he looked over his shoulder at him. Robbie felt very, very, small that moment.

“He’s on pause. Or, well, in stasis, of sorts.” Instinctively, he drew his hands up to his chest to create a feeble defense. “It’s what still keeps him in the land of the living. By not being part of it…”

The older hero sighed and shook his head, looking back down. “Thank you, for asking me to come.”

For a moment the façade slipped, and Robbie _saw_ him. Number Nine looked like he had aged several decades since he’d last seen him in person. _Grief_ , it hit him. The man had just recently lost his father, and now his son was at death’s door knocking, only still alive by being kept in a static state.

He cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at the man, wondering where the two troublemakers had disappeared to. He’d expected them to crowd them the second they’d come out of the shaft. “You got here fast.”

Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t answer the question, instead he took out the folded paper of the letter they’d sent earlier out of his back pocket. “I was cautious at first,” he unfolded the letter while he spoke, “this isn’t in your handwriting.”

“How do you know what my handwriting looks like?”

“I wrote it,” Pixel stepped forward from behind one of the many constructs around the lair, shortly followed by Stephanie. So, that’s where they’d gone. “Robbie told me what to write down and how to send it.”

“How do you know my handwriting?” Robbie repeated, pressing on.

“You confuse your d’s and b’s,” Number Nine said absently, still not an acceptable explanation in Robbie’s opinion, but he was being ignored now anyway. “I’m sorry, we haven’t introduced ourselves,” he directed towards the two adolescents.

“Oh, sorry,” Pixel rubbed his elbow and stepped closer to Stephanie. “I’m Pixel.”

“Stephanie Meanswell,” Stephanie introduced herself, gazing up at the older hero with big eyes. Her bewilderment was understandable. The duo of father and son was eerily similar.

“I should have guessed. Sportacus has told me a lot about you, both of you. I’m _Number Nine_.” He did a bow at them, swivelling his wrist in a flourish Robbie had seen Sportacus do many times before when he humoured the kids with their follies. The familiar gesture made the two visibly relax.

“If you’re wondering why Sportacus isn’t moving. It’s because of _this_.” Answering his earlier question, Pixel showed him his old invention. “I call it the Remote Controller six thousand,” pride seeping into his voice, “Sportacus is on pause right now.”

“Why did you need to… _Pause_ him,” he asked, “if he already was in a meltdown?” That one was directed towards Robbie.

“His jaws are locked shut. He kept deteriorating and… He looked like he was in pain. Cramping and sweating,” Robbie replied. Stephanie didn’t look happy from her side of the room. Robbie was running out of places to look at.

“I managed to undo ten minutes of it.” The techie chimed in again.

The older hero’s eyes shifted between them. “That’s rather specific.”

“It’s as far as I could.” Pixel shrugged. “It’s an old creation and there’s room for improvement, but-”

Robbie groaned. “Not this again.” Pixel had two settings; Fumbling and rambling. Depending on if the subject was somehow connected to technology. Robbie just… Wanted things to go back to normal, as normal as it could pass for at least. Instead, he had a bunch of people passing niceties back and forth while the man he loved was kept frozen smack dap in the middle of it.

If Number Nine was to say something about it, it got interrupted by knocking. Robbie whined. He rather wished that people just left him the hell alone.

The sound was too strong and determined to be one of the kids. Unless Trixie had taken up a mallet. He wouldn’t put it past _that one_. Robbie pulled down his trusty periscope, looked through it and groaned to high heavens at the sight. “Pixel, your dad is here.” About damn time too.

“Which one of them?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Negotiability.”

“He’s blond.” Robbie didn’t know their names, so sue him. Remembering the kids preferred nicknames was bad enough.

Pixel hung his head and made a complaining noise, which could only mean that they’d sent the Authoritarian out of the two to get him. The other man gave them an inquiring look.

“I’m so grounded,” the boy lamented. Stephanie patted his shoulder in a sign of comfort and comradery, pity written over her face.

“Is he in trouble?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked.

“He disobeyed his parents to come with me to save Sportacus. It was in the middle of the night.” He gave the boy a pointed look. “I’ve told him to go home, several times, but he won’t budge.”

“I’m, so, so, grounded,” Pixel repeated.

“Let me handle this,” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled warmly. “Come with me.” He gestured for the two children to follow him outside.

Stephanie grasped her friend’s arm to tug him along. Lingering a moment by Sportacus’ side before they got going.

 

Number Nine had already scurried up the ladder and out of sight when Pixel stopped in his tracks. “Shoot, I almost forgot!” He ran back to the kitchen area and grabbed the apple he had put on the counter. Making a beeline around the basket, his eyes flicking up to Robbie’s for a split second, before he rejoined his friend and out they were, leaving Robbie alone.

 

When Íþróttaálfurinn returned Robbie had sunk to the floor under the periscope.

“Robbie?”

“It’s been a long night.” He rubbed his hands over his face for the umpteenth time. His tic wasn’t doing him any favours whatsoever. He must look disgusting by now. Disgusting and pitiful. He drew his knees up to hug them close and buried his face out of view. He was developing a headache and found the pressure soothing. “What’d you tell him?” Robbie inquired, not looking up from his cover behind his arms while he rested his forehead on his knees.

“The truth.” His voice drifted closer with the approaching sound of his boots. “The boy helped save my son’s life and he shouldn’t be punished for doing the right thing.”

Robbie hummed, being vaguely aware of the older hero crouching down before him.

“Robbie, look at me,” the man coaxed him. He dared a glance up to see him resting on one knee in front of him. “You’re worrying the children, you’re the adult in all this. That’s why Pixel didn’t leave. And Sportacus has told me he’s not the first one to pick up on those cues.”

Fantastic. A berating. He raised his head to sneer, but what came out was the sound of a distressed chewing toy, ending in a dry sob. He was at his wits end here.

Something flicked behind the man’s hazel eyes, pity probably, before he schooled his expression into something softer. “It’s okay, I’m not asking you to hide how you feel.” A halt before he continued, “it’s just us now. Tell me, what happened?”

“We,” he took a shaky breath and continued, not entirely sure why he chose to start the recollection from that specific part of the evening, “we had a fight. I went for a walk to cool down and… It’s my fault.” Oh, that’s right. That’s why he started from there, that’s why he didn’t need the kids assuming it was his doing, he was already doing that for them.

“Robbie, how is this your fault?”

“I told him that he could have the apples. I didn’t know they were sugar apples, but, but, I should have known! They came in a package earlier, without who the sender was!”

“Breathe,” he tried to calm him down, to little avail.

“No, I made a promise!”

“What kind of promise?” There was something in the tone, the calmness of it, that egged Robbie on.

“I promised on my life that I’d never trick him into meltdown again.” He pointed beyond them, towards the centre of the main area. “I did this!”

The man waited until Robbie had somewhat gotten a grip on himself. His own expression blank and unreadable. So much like Sportacus’, and at the same time nothing like it.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he rasped out when he’d calmed down enough. “He’s crashed before, but never this bad. I thought it was at its worst when Glanni let loose that canister.” A dark thought that had been niggling at him made itself voiced, something that Íþró, the old sly fox and Sportacus’ foregoer in more than just hero title, had said when he’d explained how sugar meltdowns worked. “What if… What if the dose was so strong that he had a stroke?”

Íþróttaálfurinn flashed a grimaced, the blank mask momentarily slipping. “I don’t think so. A stroke doesn’t work the way you described happened to Sportacus. You said that he appeared to be in pain. Cardiovascular failure is when the brain doesn’t get enough blood. He’d lose consciousness, yes, as well as motor functions. But, he wouldn’t exbibit the signs you described. Locked jaws, sweating and cramps aren’t signs of having a stroke, there’s something else going on here. And,” he added, “you didn’t know they were sugar apples, if it’s the type I think you mean, I doubt that the promise applies to this. They tend to be very… Clear cut.”

Robbie was to question him, but he realised that Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t just trying to pacify Robbie, but himself as well. He nodded dumbly.

“Please continue,” he implored him.

“When I got back I found him on the floor. And then… I found a camera in that basket over there. Glanni called me after that, gloating and making demands.”

“What kind of demands?”

“Money. And… some sort of stone. I don’t know if it’s jewellery or the other, he called it a wishing stone.”

“A wishing stone?” His brow twitched. “Any specific description, or where you could get it?”

If it existed in the first place. On the other hand, he was being _interrogated_ by a fairy-tale creature. “Icelandic. Apparently, it’s on a mountain there. Bauta? I don’t know. Glanni cut the connection when I told him I wouldn’t get him the stone and then I, I broke the phone...” He hid his face behind his arms again.

The elf in front of him remained silent. Waiting for Robbie to calm down again. After a while he continued. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything you can recall is of importance.”

He shifted so he could lean his head back against the organ and stare up at the ceiling high above them. “The camera still works.” He then explained that he’d been in a one-way communication with it and what little it had given him. “No one else has been allowed to be seen by it,” he finished.

“Smart.”

Robbie might be exhausted and emotionally drained, but he had caught up to what Íþróttaálfurinn was doing. “You sound like a cop.”

A weak smile splayed under the imperial moustache. “I am one of sorts, remember?”

That was true. So was Sportacus, which was all too easy to forget. Robbie barked a laugh, sounding more like a bad cough. Well-doers and heroes to humans. Policing unit to non-humans.

“Why did you say no to Glanni?”

“Travelling all the way to Iceland to get a stone that may or may not exist? I was more than willing to give him everything I had, every last _rotten_ penny.”

Íþróttaálfurinn shifted to sit on the stairs, bodily facing away from Robbie, which he was grateful for. “I can’t say for sure about the stone. But, there is a mountain. _Baula Mountain_.” He looked back at Robbie. “It’s very real and there are old tales of a stone that grant wishes, coming to the surface of a pond once every year.”

“Glanni said that it would make all his problems disappear… And that time was scarce.”

“If there is a drop of truth to it…”

“Then it’s going to happen soon,” he finished.

The older man rose back to his feet and strode over to where his son was laid out. “I can make arrangements for you to travel over there and meet with our people. But, I have one request.”

“Name it.”

“Take a shower. You look awful and eat something, will you? I’ll take care of everything else on this end.”

“You sound like your own old man,” Robbie replied. He didn’t look to see if he’d gotten any reaction from him as he dragged his husk over to the washing room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robbie needs a proper nap or he's gonna crash.
> 
> Should prolly mention that I wrote a thesis or two and spent a semester first hand observing street-level bureaucrats; which, besides others, includes professions such as: Teachers, Social workers, and Police officers.
> 
> There’s a reason I portray the Numbered Heroes the way I do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbie, The Reluctant Traveller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting things moving. Literally.
> 
> Get in loser, we’re going to Iceland, again.

Robbie’s shoulders had started to hurt, a dull throbbing and a need to lower them. He rested his elbows against his sides to keep the sign still up.

‘ _You there?_ ’

Íþróttaálfurinn had returned to his zeppelin to make, what he’d called, arrangements, whatever that meant.

To Glanni’s credit it _only_ took him five minutes or so to respond with a blink.

Robbie let out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he’d been holding as he switched sheet.

‘ _I_ _’m going to your stupid mountain_.’

 

There was another blink. Robbie reached for a third sheet, one asking if it really had to be him. 

 

It blinked again, then the light behind the red plastic went dark, and stayed dark.

 

“What?! No, come back here, you flesh-mongering toad! How am I supposed to give you the stone?!” He tore the paper between his hands and stomped his foot. “ _Argh!_ ”

“Something wrong?” The older hero came down the ladder. A rhetorical question, surely. Robbie threw him a heated stare. The man had some timing.

“He turned off the feed after I told him that I’m going!”

“Ah,” was the mild response, the glower the man threw at the basket told that there were probably more colourful expressions he’d like to add to that. “That complicates things.”

“You don’t say.” Whatever Glanni was up to, it made less and less sense to Robbie. He’d thought he’d known the man. Turned out he didn’t and had then adapted to the new twisted depths. Glanni’s drive to make a profit remained, however the extent he was willing to go and complete disregard to other people had changed. But, this? This was self-sabotage. “I know you’re probably the first in line, but I’m going to kick his ass.” Robbie might not know how to fight, but he was pig-headed enough that he’d win by pure perseverance. And, hate was one hell of a motivator.

“I don’t condone violence. But,” Íþróttaálfurinn added, wryly, “Glanni will get what’s coming for him. He’s made himself some enemies.”

“We should start a club.” Cynicism was a comfort for Robbie. Gave him a sense of normalcy.

He didn’t reply to that, instead he said, “everything is set and ready to go. I’ve landed the aircraft in the field nearby. Have you packed lightly as I asked you?”

“Yes.” Robbie made a dismissive gesture at his cases. Pulling them out again had awoken an uneasy feeling. Last time he’d packed them in a hurry too.

The man glanced over at the suitcases. “No, I said pack lightly.”

“This _is_ lightly,” he argued.

“Warm clothes and a toothbrush is all that you’ll need.”

Before Robbie knew what was happening, Number Nine had had the audacity to open the suitcases, pick out a fluffy dark coat and his toiletry bag. “Hey now!” Not listening to the protests, he threw a few other articles into a shoulder bag he’d gotten out somewhere.

“There,” he said as he thrust them in his arms. “Sorry, but there isn’t that much time before the scheduled flight.”

“Robbie spluttered, “ _flight!_ ” clutching the coarse canvas to his stomach.

“You got your passport?” Once again, Íþróttaálfurinn ignoring his flailing.

“I… Yes?” Patting himself down onehandedly, he located it within his vest.

“Good, let’s go.”

“Wait!” There was still something Robbie needed to do.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn stood by the exit. Looking away from the intimate scene. Giving Robbie the illusion of privacy.

“Okay, you know the drill,” he said to Sportacus, as if the elf could actually hear him. But, like the blankie, it was more for Robbie’s own peace of mind. “Don’t die while I’m gone. This is your final warning.” Sportacus remained still and devoid of life like a slab of carved stone. With a sigh, he tucked back a strand of hair by his temple that had escaped the hat and adjusted the googles. He’d rather pull the whole atrocious thing off so that he could run his hand through the untamed locks. He’d rather not leave his side, knowing that the elf’s father would watch over him wasn’t enough comfort, not that Robbie had any say in the matter. “Sportalove,” he added hoarsely and rested his forehead against his.

 

The red zeppelin looked alien in the frozen landscape. Whatever farmer that owned that particular lot would have a fit at the sight.

 

The gaggle of kids, minus one, were waiting for them. Examining the ship, or in Stingy’s case, trying to claim it. The mayor was there too, Robbie didn’t in particular care.

“Are you already leaving?” Ziggy questioned.

Íþróttaálfurinn smiled down at the unknowing children. “No, I’m going to drop off Robbie at the airport, I’ll be back soon.”

Looking up from her armlock on Stingy, who was whining about property rights, Trixie asked dryly, “is it because Sportacus can’t wake up?”

Scratch that then about their ignorance. Rumour spread quickly here.

The elf looked somewhat taken aback at the bluntness. That was Trixie for you. “Yes, it is.” He adapted fast, he’d give him that. He then exchanged words with Milford, voice low.

With a sneer, Robbie lumbered past them. Sure, dog him to hurry up, and then make him wait while he chatted, why don’t he. The feel of hands grabbing onto his middle made him stumble into a halt and he twisted his body to look down. Stephanie was looking back up at him with that resolve only she could display so openly.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Robbie. Don’t worry, we’ll get him back on his feet. You look for a cure and we’ll do the same over here… Pixel is anyway.” Was that what the kids thought he was doing?

Robbie wanted to tell her that there wasn’t one. Not where he was going anyway, as far as he knew. He managed a tired nod and a tug in the corner of his mouth, which turned into a surprised ‘ _oumpfh_ ’ as she headbutted his sternum in a hug. She needed to make up her mind about him, or maybe he just looked that pitiful, despite getting some superficial resemblance of himself, that she’d felt it justified to manhandle him. Briefly brought out of the numbness, he patted her back in stunned confusion until she, thankfully, let him go.

 

“Can we go now?” Before the sticky one decided that he wanted to hug him too. He knew that lip biting expression of the smallest one. Number Nine shook Milford’s hand and ran up to help Robbie onboard.

 

The town’s children must’ve looked like spots of colours against the white ground when they’d left. Robbie hadn’t looked, just the knowledge that he was high in the air was bad enough. He’d curled up in the centre of the living quarters, thankful that most of the windows, save for the front, were shuttered. “This zeppelin isn’t going to combust, and rain fire is it?” he asked. There was a cot further in and a kitchenette. The interior of the ship was darker and rustic than Sportacus’ bare living quarters of his blimp, and more of the engineering that Robbie could appreciate. Less sensor plates hidden around or VI’s with _opinions_.

Íþróttaálfurinn snorted and shook his head, not looking back towards his fidgety cargo as he steered. “It’s run by noble gas fuel cells. Low or Non-emission fuel. An alternative to our other crafts that are either run by self-sufficient generators and electricity.”

“Top of the line, huh.” He added that piece of trivia into his mind.

“We have to.”

“Everything burns if its hot enough,” Robbie muttered and burrowed deeper into the winter coat, fighting the motion sickness. The thing was fast, he could feel it. The elf’s quick response to the call for help was less of a mystery now. Half the size of a humanmade airship and more than twice as fast he’d bet.

 

He almost missed the words coming from the front. “What?”

He realised they weren’t meant for him. A tinny voice, a speaker system he discovered, was saying something. “Copy that,” Íþróttaálfurinn replied to the voice. He turned back to Robbie. “We have a clear window in the air traffic and will land shortly.”

Robbie could only nod in response. It had taken Robbie several hours on the night bus to reach the airport. The ship sure was fast. Then the thought registered, that they weren’t the only aircraft in the air.

Íþróttaálfurinn must’ve read the panic on his face. “Don’t worry, it’s all running smoothly. There are good and sharp people supervising the airspace. We’re being directed to a landing strip not too far from the plane you’re boarding.”

“How many agreements and protocols do your people have with the humans?” Robbie couldn’t help himself from asking.

A brief tension ran through the older man’s frame. “I might be abusing a few,” he said, ending it with a low chuckle. “It was a bit of a stretch to get a seat for you so soon and this close to the holidays.”

Robbie hummed, the ends justified the means in this case.

 

Later, the tinny screech from the speaker system cut through the silence they had fallen into. Robbie clutched his coat tighter and grabbed the bag. “Okay, here goes.” He breathed through his nose and screwed his eyes shut. Making himself ready for the lurch in his stomach at the shift as they began their landing. Íþróttaálfurinn said some phrases of encouragement, it barely registered, he was too caught up trying to breathe evenly.

 

It all went in a flurry from there for Robbie. One second Íþróttaálfurinn had clutched at his shoulder in a sign of comfort, told him to follow the personnel running towards the zeppelin and the next he was ushered across the airport. The elf’s parting words still echoing in his head. “Someone will meet you in Reykjavik where you can explain what you brother is up to and what you have to do. Take care Robbie, get some shut eye on the plane, you’ll need it.” He’d barely gotten air in his lungs to explain that the psycho was most certainly not his brother before he realised that he’d been crammed into and buckled down in a seat of non-other than Iceland Air.

The notion of him trying to get some sleep was laughable. Easy for Íþróttaálfurinn to say, he wasn’t the one with the crippling Aviophobia. And especially if crammed in next to a screaming toddler. This was going to be a long flight and Robbie wondered if he per chance had died at some point and this was hell? It would explain so many things.

 

To his surprise he did doze off, after the toddler and he had joined forces in screaming at the take off. After that they had been separated and Robbie could succumb to exhaustion. Only to be awoken by the flight attendants when they were closing in on their destination, to everyone’s displeasure, as he was overtaken by alarm when they landed. He barely trusted the elves not to crash their ships, he didn’t know the faceless pilots of the commercial flight and that only fuelled his fear of flying.

 

The suspicion that he was in hell, or trapped in a lucid dream, grew in tenfold when he wobbled out through the gate and was met by a familiar face making their way over to him with determination. “Oh no, _not you_ ,” he squeaked.

“What?”

“I said, oh it’s you,” he corrected quickly.

The short blonde woman cast him a quizzical look as people bustled past them. The thick bomber jacket in loud colours making her short stature comically so as green eyes peered up at him from under a knitted cap to conceal her pointed ears. “Is that all you brought?” She nodded towards the bag he had hefted over his shoulder. He only jerked his head in a positive, desperately trying to remember the elf’s name.

He should remember it, considering that he had crashed her wedding little over a year ago. Why did they have to go and send _her!?_

 

She held her hand out. “Frída Jónsdottír.”

“I knew that,” he said and took the offered hand in a limp shake. “We... Uhm, we’ve met before.”

“I remember, but you looked a little lost.” A small smile adorned her heart shaped face and she took his arm. “Follow me.”

 

Robbie could get used to people ushering him around. It saved a lot of time and energy of thinking for himself. The cold registered finally with him and he recognised his surroundings as the airport garage’s exterior with a jolt.

 

“Why is it so dark?” He tried to do some mathematical acrobatics in his head and failed. He had no idea what time it’d been when he’d left LazyTown. And then there was adjusting to regional time.

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“You sure?”

“You get used to the darkness during this time of the year.”

“Your country is broken.”

Her mouth tugged into a wry expression and asked, “anything else?”

“Yes, where are you taking me?” It was good to know the general area of where she’d dump his body.

“We’re going to Reykholt to meet up with Number Eight.”

That told him absolutely nada. “We’re not flying, are we?”

“Don’t worry, I have a car.”

“An actual car? Like, a _car_ car, and not some weird eco-friendly death trap?” He gave the stink eye in the direction of the rentals.

“It’s an electric car.”

He scrunched up his face. “Eww.”

She made an amused sound at his antics.

 

It was a silver coloured hatchback of a brand he didn’t recognize, too small for Robbie’s gangly legs and he had to push the passenger seat as far back as he could, making the seatbelt more a hazard than safety measure. She unzipped her jacket to fasten her own seatbelt and Robbie had to do a double take before he spoke against his better judgement. “Is that an unflattering jumper, or are you pregnant? Because, I can only help you with the wardrobe malfunction.” The bomber jacket had hidden her round figure under all that bolster.

She gaped at him, eyes big in silent shock at his blunt remark. You weren’t supposed to ask women that he remembered too late and made himself ready for a lashing.

The assault never came. To his bewilderment, she threw her head back and let out a pearly laughter.

“I… I’m sorry?”

“I can understand what Sportacus sees in you,” she snickered. “Yes, I’m expecting.”

“Oh, uhm… Congrats… I suppose.”

“Thank you,” she said and started the car. There was a whirr and it began rolling without a sound. He found the whole thing unnerving. Cars were supposed to make some sort of noise, the only thing he could hear was the heater. “Honestly, I expected you to notice _this_ first.”

Notice what, he was about to say, but then he caught the glint of metal on her left hand as she turned the steering wheel. Oh. _Ooh._ “The ring?”

“Yeah.”

“Same guy as the father? Not that I care, or judge, or anything!” He added, “I don’t care, I’m not even curious.” Man, that had been quick. First time he’d seen her, she’d been about to be wed to Sportacus. He counted only one ring on her finger, so she was engaged, not hitched yet. He wondered what the community had to say about that. Since they were the type to _arrange_ marriages. That sort of conduct didn’t exactly scream modern civilisation.

She laughed again, and Robbie was starting to question her psyche. “It’s Tomás, on both accounts.”

“Should that name ring any bells for me?”

“It’s Sportacus’ cousin.”

“Oh. Uhh…” Robbie didn’t know what to say. “Sorry to hear about your future mother-in-law.” He didn’t remember the man, but he sure remembered his unpleasant mother.

“She’s complaining, saying that I should quit my job and move back north, make the summer house a permanent residence. But, Tomás and I have it good in Hafnarfjörður. It’s close enough to commute to Reykjavik.” She finished with a shrug, “you can’t have everything.”

Taking in that infodump he hadn’t asked for he wasn’t all too sure about that. He sighed and looked out the side window, they were leaving the human capital and continued north, the light in the car dimming into darkness, only faintly illuminated by the dashboard’s controls, as they left denser population behind. He’d expect them to head for Kópavogur, the elven capital south of Reykjavik, but this didn’t seem to be the case. Though, the worry that she’d take him somewhere remote to dispose of him seemed less and less likely however. If you’d ask him, it sounded like she’d gotten the better deal here. Engagement, career, and soon a baby. Robbie wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “I suppose not,” he said eventually.

 

He vaguely recognised the signs of the main road in the headlights and he spoke again. “Why did they send you? I would have expected…” He made a gesture in the dark with his hand, not sure how to put it himself.

“Someone with a big number on their chest?”

“Yeah, that.”

“I volunteered. And, not to blow my own horn, but I figured that the last thing you’d need is a faceful of Number Eight’s _charm_. She’s a stickler for formalities. I’m better with people and Íþróttaálfurinn said that you were… Fragile at the moment.” She sighed again and shook her head solemnly. “Coming to pick you up felt like the least I could do. I care about Sportacus too, deeply. We go way back.”

“Thanks, I guess.” _Fragile?!_ Thanks a bunch, Number Nine. Not that Robbie could oppose the unflattering description. At least he didn’t have to tell her what had happened, she seemed kept up to date.

“And Frændi Íþró tends to stick out, I had to go, or he would’ve,” she added in the dark of the car.

He tried to imagine the old man clad in unsuspicious clothes at the airport. Nope, couldn’t do it. Also, did everyone call that geezer _uncle_ , or what? “Frændi isn’t an honorific, is it?”

“If it’s used for _stubborn old men,_  then yes,” she deadpanned.

Robbie snorted. They could agree on that.

“He’s waiting in Reykholt too.”

“Oh joy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's what gave Sportacus pause at the funeral, while Robbie is about as tactful as a sledgehammer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbie VS Íþró VS Number Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I speak for most of us when I say that it's been rough lately. 
> 
> Either way, this chapter, despite being the first one I started sketching out, fought me all the way.

“What is this place?”

Robbie took in the sight of the tall illuminated building of glass and white plastered stone… And a clock tower. It was, hopefully, a museum. Or, as all blatant signs pointed towards, a church, and Robbie had had it with weird churches and ministries. People clad in thick winter coats began to mill out the narrow passage from the hillside, chattering between themselves and wielding pamphlets. Tourists, he realised.

 

“It’s a church,” Frída answered to his side, oblivious to Robbie’s distressed groan, “this side however,” she continued, “is a Cultural and Research Centre.”

So, he’d gotten it fifty fifty right, it would seem. Up until he saw the cross stuck into the hill by the split-level entrance. Okay, maybe thirty seventy?

Why did he always end up at these kinds of places? He asked himself as he was led past the way the group of people had exited and into a side entrance around the corner at ground level.

 

The change in temperature as they entered the building was a welcome one. The stretch from the parking lot had been short, but it had been _nippy_. “Feel free to look at the exhibition downstairs. Just don’t… Don’t touch anything, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“Meh,” he complained, as she left him to fend for himself.

 

Most of the exhibition seemed devoted to this one guy named Snorri. A dust ancient earl and writer who apparently couldn’t get along with his family, enough for it to end in bloody murder. It appeared some things were just universal. Transcending time, space and races.

He was inspecting what was the remains of a glass cup when he was startled by the tapping on his shoulder and a female voice calling to his attention. What was left of the artifact narrowly escaped being destroyed into further tiny pieces as he instead accidentally hit his elbow on the edge of the display glass, making him hiss as it sent tingles all the way up to his shoulder.

“I’m afraid we’re closing for today. Feel free to come again tomorrow during our visiting hours.” The owner of the voice must’ve thought that he was a straggler from the group of tourists that had left the building. He was to explain that he was expecting someone when he gave pause.

 

An older woman with dark brown eyes and thick ash coloured hair in a long loose braid was looking up at him with a firm expression. The universal ‘ _please, go home_ ’ look. Robbie didn’t trust that red beret she wore on her head, considering how far she’d pulled it down.

He was forever going to be wary of anyone wearing a hat from now on. 

 

There was also a necklace with a lemniscate and a translucent crystal dangling from the silver chain around her neck. It was somewhat underwhelming, if using the other heroes he’d met as means of benchmarking, or maybe it was her off duty attire, if there was such a thing.

 

“No, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be,” he blurted out, trying to get his bearings back and straightened up.

Her expression shifted into scrutiny, narrowing her eyes. “ _You_ _’re_ Robbie Rotten?”

Why didn’t he like the tone of her voice? “Do you see anyone else here?” he replied dryly.

“Pardon me. Yes, I’ve been expecting you.” She held out her hand for a handshake and Robbie instantly regretted taking it. “Number Eight,” she stated firmly. The grip on his hand was painful. And he drew back to gingerly cradle it in his other, trying not to whimper. What was it with numbered heroes and attempting to break the bones in his hand? He’d had hoped that the women were beyond this pissing contest, but alas. Or, maybe he just brought out this side of them. One could only wonder.

The uncalled strength contest hadn’t gone unnoticed, as another person’s voice in a thick accent joined in, “Dagný, don’t be like that.”

Robbie knew that voice.

“I would prefer it if you’d call me by my title, for now.” _Dagn_ _ý_ , as the name sign on her fleece vest should’ve been indication enough, along with a surname he could barely comprehend, glowered over her shoulder towards Íþró, turning into outright scorn when she saw his antics. The elder was standing by the entrance to the exhibition, leaning on the copy of a colourful wooden carving. Eight didn’t appear to like the uncaring treatment of the display. To be fair, the other elf was probably old enough to become a part of the exhibit, in Robbie’s humble opinion.

 

Robbie felt something akin to relief at the sight of a familiar face, ugly tail cap and all. “Hey, old man.” Not bothering to even pretend to be polite. They had passed that stage after the geezer had tried to force-feed him raw half-rotten fish. Some things you just didn’t forgive.

The curled moustache twitched as Íþró acknowledged him with a wry smile, “Robbie, good to see you.” He added, looking him up and down “you look malnourished. I would have hoped you’d taken better care of yourself.”

 _Seriously?_ That’s what he got? He wasn’t going to lie; the blunt remark was somewhat comforting. It was better than being referred to as _fragile_. That might have been the case last night, now he felt worn down, but had a goal spurring him onwards. Though, the heavy hand on his shoulder in greeting nearly sent him careening over another display and he could’ve really done without that.

 

Eight made a displeased sound in the back of her throat before she motioned them to follow her to the staff room.

 

Apparently, as he was stiffly briefed in lieu of niceties, Eight was an assistant at the centre, when she wasn’t busy running around doing actual Samaritan stuff that was. Typical sports elf, couldn’t enjoy downtime, but had to find a hectic hobby as well.

The jug of tea, or in his case, honeyed dirt water with more honey than water, was a heaven sent for him in his _not fragile_ state. The natural glucose hitting home instantly. It also helped that he lathered the bland crackers with it, filling his stomach until the box was in turn empty in a handful of minutes.

The strange looks both Number Eight and Frída threw his way didn’t faze him, he was busier analysing Íþró, than being judged by his dietary habits.

The contents of the old geezer’s smaller cup looked more like tar as he sipped on his beverage. In the harsh translucent light of the staff room he looked gaunt, his beard featuring more white strands than gold and copper. Everywhere Robbie went everyone seemed to look worse for wear. It made one ponder on how bad he looked in their eyes, since they all loved to point out how distressful his own appearance was.

“Mr. Rotten,” Eight addressed him as she sat down to face him. “I’ve heard of what happened to Number Ten. However, I do not fully understand why Number Nine would request for you to be sent to me. Frankly, this is something that should be handled in Álfaborg, if the sugar concoction has become this dangerous.”

Robbie wasn’t the only confused one here then, fabulous. “I need to go to a mountain top to get a wishing stone,” he said, hoping to bring some clarity to them all. “Bounty Mountain, or something.”

Grimaces flashed over all three elves faces at his blatant misnaming of the mountain.

“Baula mountain,” Eight said sourly, as if the words left a bad taste in her mouth, “of course.” She continued, “it’s a mountain within my area to watch over. That would explain why you’re here and the urgency.”

“I thought that was just a tale,” Frída spoke up from her corner of the room, surveying the interchange from a distance.

“Not quite,” Íþró said, breaking his uncharacteristic silence. “It is said, that on the very top of the mountain lies a pond and one night a year… A wishing stone will rise up to the surface, its power belonging to whoever that can claim it,” he sounded as if he was reciting a text, his hazel eyes staring down in the black tar of the cup. He took another sip of his strong tea. “It would make sense if it’s on the night of the winter solstice. The darkest night of the year.” Giving a pointed look over the rim towards Eight, who did not look happy in the slightest. Robbie felt like he was missing something.

“Great, when’s that?” he asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Eight informed him curtly, “and this is also why I must tell you that it’s out of the question.”

“ _What?!_ ” His empty jug clattered against the vinyl table top.

She stopped Robbie from further protesting with a raised hand. “I understand Nine’s reasoning, but that mountain is out of bounds, for _everyone_ ,” she added in response to the eldest’s scoff. “It’s riddled with monsters. The stone is not the _only_ _thing_ said to come to the surface that night.”

 

How bad was it, when the supernatural people said that something was monstrous?

 

“No one has seen any creatures besides ours and humans for over one hundred years,” the elder argued. “Even the trolls have left.”

Robbie didn’t like the sound of trolls.

“With all due respect,” it sure didn’t appear like she meant it, “you are no longer a numbered hero.” She fixed them both with a hard stare. “It’s too dangerous.”

He’d come all this way, only to be told _no?_ “Excuse me, does it look like I care about that?” Robbie had a long list of badly executed, dastardly, and near fatal experiences under his belt, all by his own hand. The fact that Sportacus had been there to save him most of those times was a minor unimportant detail right now.

“I’m sorry, but there is no way that I can help you reach up there with good conscious. None of the current numbered can.” Her face softened into one that could almost pass for compassion. “That’s my final word. The stone isn’t your answer.”

“So, that’s it?” Robbie couldn’t believe what this woman was saying. Nor could he believe that Íþróttaálfurinn had thought it a good idea to send Robbie to a red-tapist! “You’re just going to let him, one of your own, die? How’s _that_ for good conscious?!”

His argument and raised voice didn’t have any visible impact on her. The naysayer just shook her head at him. “You can go to Kópavogur, as you should have from the start. They might have a different opinion than me, but until then, my word stands. _I cannot_ and _will not_ help you. If that is what Nine was hoping for, he was wrong.”

‘ _On that we can agree on_ ,’ he thought bitterly.

“Dagný,” Íþró said in a low cautioning voice. A glimmer of hope for Robbie. Someone was still in his corner.

“ _Nei,_ _Íþr_ _ótta_ _álfurinn_ ,” was what Robbie understood before whatever she said next made Íþró put down his cup with force too and they were arguing in Icelandic in hectic voices.

Typical.

Robbie hunched over his spilled jug, trying to block out the ruckus and formulate a plan of his own. Of course Glanni would force him to go to a mountain that may or may not be inhabited by monsters, to look for a stone that may or may not exist. No wonder he wouldn’t do it himself.

Given Robbie’s awful luck, he’d probably encounter the first and not the second.

He wanted to tell everyone in the room to go off, if they weren’t going to do something constructive to help him. What he did instead, was slinking out while they weren’t paying attention to him and leave them to argue amongst themselves.

This little venture to Number Eight wasn’t a complete waste however. He now had a date and set timeframe to work with. There was a hotel nearby where he could ask for directions, all he had to do was ‘ _borrow_ ’ a car to get there. No way that he would take the electric one.

 

Planning on how to proceed, he followed a path of gravel until he encountered a perfect round basin of sorts, heat emitting from it and realising he was at a dead end. He was about to turn and head the other direction in an already trampled trail across the snowy lawn when he caught the fast approaching sound of boots on gravel and ice behind him, coming to a stop by his side at the stonework edging the basin. His absence hadn’t gone completely unnoticed and he silently swore.

 

Robbie didn’t bother looking at Íþró as he spoke, feigning interest in the basin, and certainly not having tried to sneak off. “What is this? Some sort of well?” An angry well, judging by the hot vapour drifting into the cool air.

“This is Snorralaug,” he motioned for the pool of water, “the oldest known hot spring used by humans, named after Snorri Sturluson himself who lived here and owned it.”

The name that had featured in the exhibition. “The guy who… What was he famous for again?”

“He’s mostly known in modern history as the one who wrote the _Prose Edda_ … He did a fairly good job, for a human and a Christian.”

Considering that the Huldu had their own church he wasn’t going to question what he meant by that. “That’s fair,” he replied and went down on his hunches to inspect the dark water in the dim light coming from the buildings behind them.

“You were planning on running off on your own, weren’t you? Robbie-” Íþró started.

He cut him off, “I’m going. And, none of you can stop me.” He’d get to that pond, damn the consequences.

 

In hindsight he should have expected the reply from the elder.

 

Maybe not the tired laughter but the words following it. “And how, pray tell, do you plan to climb a mountain in the dead of winter? Without nothing but _that_ ,” he scoffed at his outfit, “with no experience, or direction? Don’t be a fool, drengur. I’m coming with you.”

“Oh,” Robbie stuttered, “wh, well, well, that’s great then!”

Íþró just shook his head and rolled his eyes at him, a very recognisable display of chagrin on a different but yet similar face, as he turned on his heel to walk back towards the Cultural Centre. It took a moment for Robbie to get out of his stupor and trot up to his side.

“What about Eight?” The woman had made a point not to be of any assistance.

“She might not like it, but she can’t physically stop you either. The order is for _active_ numbered heroes and for people that do heed the old warning.”

“Which we aren’t,” Robbie filled in, that spark of hope coming to light again.

The elder’s moustache twitched, and a smile graced his features under the greying beard. “No, not for strákur, we’re not.”

 

The local hero, was _not_ happy.

She was malleable enough though, to offer one of the temporarily free accommodations, initially used for researchers currently off to spend the holidays with their near ones, seeing as finding room at the only hotel in town would be impossible this close to Christmas Eve for the only _demi-fae_ of them, a characterisation he could have done without. Robbie just had this talent to come whenever tourist season was peaking.

Robbie would have opted for sleeping in the car to get out of the awkward situation, but that was swiftly voted down by his two so called allies.

“Thanks,” he forced out towards Eight outside the front door.

“I don’t want Frída driving this late in her condition,” she replied evenly and bid them goodnight.

 

Well, that settled that.

 

The pregnant woman in question hadn’t looked to be in a too dire condition. In fact, she was currently in an animated debate with Íþró in the common sitting room, something about the best way to approach the mountain. Robbie came to remember that Sportacus had mentioned that they used to go rock climbing. He hung back to let them sort this out, until she went upstairs to the loft with a disgruntled huff. ‘ _…_ _Okay?_ ’ he noted.

“Don’t mind her,” Íþró explained. “We’re all frustrated with Dagný right now.”

Major understatement.

 

“What was coming here supposed to bring me?” he groused and fell down in one of the brown armchairs, it wasn’t even nearly as comfortable or stylish as his own. Brown old furniture and white walls should be a crime, one that did not pay off.

“Íþróttaálfurinn probably hoped that Dagný would lend her help by flying you to the top in the air balloon. It used to be his after all, before he changed to the zeppelin,” the elder said from an identical armchair across from him. “I was informed to come here as a plan B.”

That explained his presence, besides being personally involved in Sportacus’ well-being. “Balloon?” Robbie flashed a grimace. “ _Hard. Pass_.” What did elves have against the concept of feet planted on firm ground?

Íþró hummed, before he carried on. “The top of Baula is fairly easy to reach if we climb it from the west, as it is the closest safest way up the mountain side from Mælifellsgil. It’ll be a steep and slippery climb on the ridge for someone as inexperienced as you. Especially, now during winter, we’ll have to pace ourselves, if we wish to reach the top at all.”

Wow, the elder should definitely not do pep talks. Robbie nodded, trying to make sense of what the other man was pointing at on the map before him. Without actual context and something more, well, three dimensional, the map made little to no sense to him.

Yet, Robbie was starting to feel jittery, coming out from his condition of anti-zen of utter apathy, now that they had a plan to climb the forsaken hill. He rubbed his nose and sucked on his teeth. “Stupid question, but have you been up there before?”

“Not a stupid one at all, and yes, long ago,” he answered as he folded the map to stroke his beard in thought. “I don’t think there’s a local mountain top I haven’t climbed by now. It’s hard to keep track of all the places I’ve been to over the years.”

He raised a brow at the remark. “How old are you anyway?”

“You should start consume more fatty acid, it’ll help improve your memory.”

“Keep your disgusting fish for yourself.” Robbie shuddered at the thought.

It was Íþró’s turn to give him a droll expression, leaning back against the tasteless brown cushioning of his own armchair. “One hundred and ninety-one.”

“I missed your second big ninety.”

“Eh, save it ‘til two hundred, if I’ll make it that far.”

Robbie choked. “Not funny.”

“I lost someone I had great respect for recently, he was one hundred and seventy-six. Anything can happen.”

“…Emil?” They hadn’t exactly struck him as all too chummy when he’d seen them in the same room. Antipathic, near antagonistic, was more how he would have described their relationship.

“Yes,” he said and rose to his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll leave early, even if I’ll have to drag you out of the bed myself.” Robbie felt inclined to believe him, if he would even be able to sleep at all.

In the end, not falling asleep would have been more kind on him.

 

There were rude awakenings.

And then there was _this_.

 

According to the radio clock it had been five on the dot in the morning, after a night of tossing and turning and multiple what ifs plaguing his mind, when Robbie woke up with a start to the elder throwing a large heavy bundle of winter wear and other gear in his face, telling him to get dressed and join them for breakfast. He didn’t ask where he’d gotten the items from. He did however demand to know, whilst clutching the duvet up to his chest, how the hell the man had gotten into his _locked_ room.

The lack of answer, besides a chuckle, was most unsatisfactory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I for one, wonder why everyone is uncharacteristically upset around Robbie.
> 
> Also, I cannot take Snorri/Snorre as a name seriously, since it is the equivalent to a childish version of "Dick". 
> 
> Look him up. Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241), chief, politician, writer, poet and human disaster, is the writer behind the Edda, aka the precursor handbook of poetry and textbook in Nordic mythology. Amongst other things, such as the Heimskringla, a collection of stories of the Norwegian kings of the time. 
> 
> Though Snorri was recollecting stories of Asatru, he was himself a Christian.  
> The man led a chaotic life of waging war on family (how one manages to court the same woman as your nephew and be pissed off enough to gather two armies against them when they marry is beyond me), got stuck in Norway being in a frenemy situation with the king there and then finally ended up brutally murdered back in Iceland by his previous son in law and a couple of men with sharp swords -bc politics... Nordic history is wild...
> 
> And yeah, the Cultural Centre is a real thing and it... looks weird. Reykholt being the closest town to Baula was a happy accident, one I'm glad about.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Low Mountains, Tall Tales and Old Regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't go mountain climbing in the winter, especially not without an experienced guide. Just saying.

Number Eight looked at them with a disapproving expression and strong arms folded over her chest. Did all sports elves flex when they were displeased? “You are making a mistake,” she said to them. This time she was clad in her actual uniform consisting of a deep red vest and pants on top of a grey long-sleeve, prior lemniscate pinned to her front in a proper aligned eight symbol with infused crystal in the lower loop. The beret remained the same however.

This was more what he’d expected to be met by from the very beginning.

“Thanks for the hospitality and hostility,” Robbie replied, scowling right back at her from under the ski cap, not impressed by her disapproval in the slightest. He had received better disapproving looks from far more imposing people, most of them from before he’d hit fifteen, and half of the known occurrences by his own mother.

She said something to the elder as well, while Robbie struggled into the car, he shook his head at her in reply along with something in a hushed tone, not that Robbie would understand it anyway. It looked like they would start arguing again, when Frída intervened, living up to her profession as mediator. Both heroes, current and resigned, parted ways. The eldest to join them and the woman to stand in the middle of the large empty parking lot, watching them drive away.

                                                                                                                         

In the rear-view mirror, the diminishing figure of Number Eight disappeared and was swallowed up by darkness behind them like a bad omen, Robbie shook his head to clear out that uncalled feeling from his mind.

He’d never thought he’d say this, but he was missing the never-ending daylight from his last visit.

 

Less than twenty minutes later, Íþró leaned forwards between the front seats.

The elder pointed out into the distance over Robbie’s shoulder from the cramped-up backseat. “There.”

Robbie followed the direction he was pointing, squinting his eyes. A silhouette of a perfect cone shaped mountain could be distinguished from the backdrop of fading stars in the horizon. “That? Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not.”

“How the hell am I supposed to get on top of _that?_ ”

Frída piped up, “Baula is just short of one kilometre in elevation over sea level. It only looks tall because of its shape.”

“None of you should do pep talks,” he groused.

Íþró’s scowled at him in confusion, Frída only chuckled.

 

Another twenty minutes later they were saying goodbye to their driver, or in Robbie’s case, the car heater.

Frída complained to the elder in their native tongue.

He, on the other hand, decided to keep it in English, not that Robbie was grateful or anything, the lesser he knew about their quarrelling the better for his own peace of mind. Nevertheless, Robbie watched them, picking up what he could, nosy as he was. “And if you were to come with us six months along, and things went downhill, how do you think _we_ _’d_ feel?” Íþró scolded her.

That made sense of her sour mood from last night. He sighed wistfully, had their predicaments been reversed, Robbie would've been more than happy to sit this one out. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

 

That had been hours ago. Now, when light had crept up over the horizon and over the opposite side of the mountain, it was even more daunting when he saw how much further they had left to climb

Sunrise was different than he was used to, unlike the traditional yellow and gold of the sun emerging this one was of pastel pink and peach, never really loosing that edge of orange where the sun hung far too low than he was used to.

Under different circumstances, he might have appreciated the soft pastels of the sky and the general view of the dramatic landscape surrounding them, maybe even lost his breath at the beauty. As it was, he had other things to focus on. Like not losing his foot in a crevice!

“Are you kidding me?!” Robbie complained as he got his boot stuck for the third time. It was a steep uphill climb, as he’d been warned. That wasn’t the main issue however, no, the problem was it was winter. And there was snow hiding treacherous clefts and loose rocks, and snow didn’t agree with Robbie, and Robbie certainly didn’t agree with it! Come to think of it, he didn’t agree with most things.

Baula was definitely one of these things. He was also pretty sure the blasted elf was trying to off him. It most certainly didn’t help that he was feeling slightly feverish, despite loss of feeling in his face from the cold wind!

“You’re overheating, open your jacket,” chastised said blasted elf from above him, having led their journey upwards in even strides, letting Robbie follow in his footsteps in the snow.

“You’re the one who insisted on all these clothes!” he argued straight back, feeling riled up. The elder had only added a mustard coloured down coat over a knitted fisherman jumper and a pair of gloves, toting around a big rucksack and walking up the ridge like he was out for an afternoon stroll, while Robbie struggled with every step. It was _infuriating_. The snow wasn’t that deep, heck it had been snowier back home, but after hours of climbing, every step was strenuous, only making his bad temper worse.

“If you sweat too much, it will cool off and chill you.”

“Sounds great.”

“You’ll freeze,” he deadpanned.

“Again,” he sneered as he jerked the zipper under his chin downwards, “all these clothes were your idea!”

  

It was with a mix of relief and guilt, the first feeding the other, that Robbie was talked into taking a break on the next plateau, Íþró’s idea of spacing their climb it would seem, before Robbie hurt himself for real. The coffee tasted awful, however, the warmth to his numb cheeks from the vapour was welcome. He pulled a series of grimaces, somewhat fascinated with the odd stiff feeling in his face. At least Íþró had found them a niche on the plateau that was fairly sheltered from the wind.

 

Robbie could have been more than happy to sit there in silence and enjoy a rare moment of good ol’ immobility, sitting on the unfolded roll of foam, pretending to be downright lazy. Soaking in the warming sun and wash away the unsettling feeling of darkness that would return in a few hours.

The elf had other plans the second after he’d consumed his disgustingly healthy sandwich it would appear. “Unusually lovely weather,” he stated, filling the silence.

“Don’t jinx it,” he replied before taking a careful slow sip of the awful liquid. He was just waiting for a snowstorm to come rolling in any second, just because he was who he was.

“I suppose that’s true… Tell me, what do you see over there?” he inquired by his side.

His gaze was automatically drawn to a spot, a shimmer standing out amongst the rest of the mirages caused by the sun. “A large house ruin, what’s left of it anyway.”

“Interesting,” the man mused aloud.

Oh, he understood what the geezer was doing. Robbie glared over at the elf. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The blocks of stone leaning on each other had been nagging in the back of his mind ever since he’d first laid eyes on them. The same push and pull, of his gut telling him to look the other way contesting with the feeling of something _other_ in the back of his mind telling him that there was something to see. It was not even nearly as dramatic as the first time he’d experienced it, the vaguest of shifts than the forced Valsalva manoeuvre in his ears he’d experienced in the beginning.

“That’s an old _Tr_ _öllakirja_. Though, it’s since long abandoned.”

One of the Huldufólk’s churches, except… “ _Trölla?_ As in, Troll?” He was begging for a no.

“In this case, yes.”

_Damn it_.

 

Not only had he’d been tricked into a game of _Spot the Huldu Magic_ , but there was the reminder of him being in old troll territory. Just what he needed. Robbie hung his head and whined. He’d had a run in with the trolls outside of LazyTown, though, to be fair he had sought them out on his own, clearly way over his head and by far not one of his prouder moments. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience, and those trolls were supposed to be of the _civilised_ type.

“There are two more. Over there, and there.” He pointed, and Robbie followed with his eyes before he could help himself. All he saw was more ruins, and rubble.

“Is the whaddya call it, _sight warping_ , still in place?” He was hoping that the man would say no, or describe something that deviated from what Robbie saw.

“Yes, but that would not matter, not with that one,” he looked at the third one in the distance on the western mountain top, the one reduced to rubble and blocks of rock, “it looks indistinguishable from its surrounding.” Something in his voice made his skin crawl. “Looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it… It didn’t look like that the last time I was here.”

“And on that cheery note, lets continue, huh?” Robbie said, his voice an octave too high and tight in his throat. It could be the lack of oxygen getting to his head, but somehow the midwinter sun felt a whole lot less warm. “And don’t make me look for hidden spots again, it hurts my head.” That last one wasn’t entirely true. He chugged the last of the coffee, gagged and shoved the cup in the old man’s general direction.

 

According to the elder they were far ahead of schedule, thanks to the mild weather, and Robbie’s one-track minded fixation of reaching the top.

The elf had said other things, notions of the area, trying to initiate some form of conversation. Robbie had merely grunted, too physically exasperated from the climbing and thinning air, and sulking at the elder for what he’d pulled earlier.

Íþró lit the last of the stretch before them with the help of an electric lantern, creating a limited space of light for them to see where they were putting their feet since the sun having gone down behind them in just as dramatic hues as it had risen earlier. Robbie felt silly for his earlier apprehension of the night returning.

“You’re faster than I thought,” he said, looking over at him.

Robbie did reply to that remark. “That’s because I want this to be over with, the sooner we reach the top the better.” It helped that there were fewer loose rocks to stumble on now as well. The snow was thicker and deeper, but also firmer under his weight.

 

Reaching the peak of the mountain was… Anticlimactic. The top of the mountain was hollowed into a bowl. No sign of water in liquid form, though.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now,” Ípró said, “we wait.” Carefully edging down into the recess.

 

Needless to say, Robbie was bored out of his skull, staring into the fire the elf had started for them to keep warm on the niche inside the recess, ignoring the chastising of keeping his boots too close to the fire. He chewed on his sandwich of cheese and ham, rejecting anything else the man had tried to coax into him. He was ravenous enough to eat the crust, what more could he ask of him? He still wasn’t going to willingly consume sportscandy in any form.

Out of boredom he spoke. “I would have expected a pool of some sort, what’s the tale anyway of this stone, old man.”

"I'm not a good storyteller, I must warn you.” Íþró came back from running around the place to scout the edges. “There are many tales,” he said and sat down by him, reaching for the thermos, “though, the more known one is about a young girl trekking up to where we are now.” He poured the hot beverage and took a mouthful to swallow. “She came from a not poor, though modest enough family and stumbled upon the pond, finding a wishing stone at its surface.”

“Hard to stumble upon something like that,” Robbie murmured, considering the lengths they’d gone to reach the top. That a young human girl would trek up here on her own and find it by chance was ludicrous.

The man cast a disapproving glare. “When she found it, she wished that she was at a grand ball, and suddenly found herself in the midst of a banquet in a beautiful palace. She was in awe by her surroundings, the finely clad people and the festivities. She was handed a golden goblet brimming with wine. When she drank from it, she closed her eyes and wished to return back home. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself back on the mountain peak by the pond.”

“What? How? That’s not how it works! The stone was supposed to grant wishes, and taking offered food-”

Íþró stared him down. “Do _not_ interrupt me,” he said in a stern tone.

Robbie shrunk into his parka and nodded. Still wanting to protest the contradictions of the tale, but also wanting to hear how it ended.

“She threw the stone back into the pond, but kept the goblet, which she then brought to the king who bought the item from her for a mighty generous price, enough for her to buy her own farm and live the rest of her days in economical independency.”

Robbie huffed. “This is a dumb story.” No mention of monsters in it though, that was always something, except for the mystery party. “Who were the people she met, and why did she throw back the stone?”

“Who knows. The banquet might have been held by elves, though I doubt that.”

Robbie huffed again. Too many holes and uncertainties. Too many what ifs.

The fire crackled and Íþró finished his coffee.

“You’re upset,” Íþró stated the obvious from his end of the unfolded roll of foam.

Robbie grunted before he spoke. “Let see, where should I start?” There were many things that were upsetting, being stuck on the top of a cold dark mountain waiting for true night despite it already being dark was only the latest addition to the growing list of things that currently upset him.

“No, you’ve been upset since our first break.”

The spot the church thing.

“So maybe I am.”

“Why?”

Robbie was starting to wish that the man would go back to running and jumping around the place. “What do you mean _why?_ ” he parroted back.

The elder’s lips thinned, and the moustache twitched in ill hidden frustration at Robbie’s reply. “Last time we met, you were showing off that you could see through our _Sj_ _ónvherfin_ so easily. Now, you claim that you have headaches from it.” He jabbed a glove clad finger at him. “That’s not normal.”

“So what, you worry?”

“I do.”

Great, another one to fret over him.

Íþró glared at him and Robbie answered in kind, until he gave in with a sullen sigh. “I lied, okay? I don’t like doing the thing anymore.”

The old man’s thin grey eyebrows disappeared under the rim of his atrocious hat. “And your own illusions and shifts. Have you lost interest in that as well?”

“What is this, third-degree interrogation?” He had let up on his use of disguises, yes, but that was for other reasons motivating that decision. “It’s none of your business.”

“Watch your tone,” he chastised, “I’m merely curious what brought on this change.”

“You know what? he snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine, I’ll tell you! This is all your fault anyway! I was perfectly happy, until you had to start asking about my dad! And making _me_ ask questions!” The old man was the one to have started asking about Robbie’s father’s side of the family after all.

He seemed unimpressed with the outburst. “What did you find out?”

“He was Seelie.”

“Oh,” the impression shifted. “I see,” he said, lower.

“Do you,” he spat, “do you really?”

“Drengur, what happened?”

“The condensed version, is that mom met dad, got married, his family didn’t approve when they found out that mom was half giant, or giantess, I don’t know the pronoun. Mom got out, dad didn’t.” Something thick stuck in his throat at the end of the tirade. That was the very, _very_ , condensed version.

The implications sunk in for the elder, he could see the intrigued face grow solemn. “I’m sorry to hear that.” A silence settled over them, though it didn’t last for too long until the man broke it. “I have heard of how the Seelie handle things. Mixing isn’t favourable.”

“Well, that would explain _sooo_ many things now, wouldn’t it.”

“Have you told Sportacus?” he inquired.

“No, I don’t want him to know.”

“You’re afraid that he’ll look at you differently.” Not a question.

“Yeah..." He crossed and uncrossed his arms, not sure what to do with himself. "Something like that.”

“He won’t.”

“He can’t even talk about normal things that bother him, how can I-” Robbie cut himself short. He was just looking for excuses.

“Keeping secrets isn’t healthy.”

He snorted at the hypocrisy spilling from the elf’s mouth. “Yeah, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Robbie was maybe the pot calling the kettle black, but he was in his right, he figured, to give Íþró the same treatment of cross-examination. “Tell me, was it love, or necessity?”

He blinked in confusion. “… I do not quite follow?”

“Àróra,” he said the woman’s name short and consist, looking him dead in the eye.

It might have been the reflection of the fire in the elf’s eyes making them glint like amber, making them hard, a warning in them for Robbie not to go there.

Too bad, for all involved. “You’re his _grandfather_.”

A shift in the glint of his eyes. Íþró turned away to stare into the fire, his expression stony. With a sigh and his shoulders slumping in defeat, he said, “yes,” sounding every year old as he was.

“So?” he wheedled him, “did you?”

After a beat, Íþró decided to humour him, he sighed again and turned his gaze up to the stars. “I did, once,” he admitted. “I had to let her go, she was never mine to begin with… Nor was Íþróttaálfurinn, or Sportacus. It’s old history now,” he added and fell silent.

Robbie didn’t know what to reply to that. He too had been willing to let Sportacus go… Still was. It would be anything short of a miracle if the elf would still want anything to do with him after _this_. “He has her eyes,” he said.

“He does, thank heaven for that.” The elder exhaled before he spoke again, voice tinged with… _Something_. “We thought that he would have brown eyes when he was born. His irises were coal black at first, until they slowly took on that blue.”

“...So, is that why Emil didn’t like you?” Robbie asked. "Anyone could pick on that."

“It’s complicated.” Íþró shrugged. “He forgave Àróra for the affair, for her reasons and desperate wish for a child. It started later… I was never supposed to be part of their life, you see, just a friendly Samaritan that came and went when the need arose. Then, Íþróttaálfurinn reached out, and Emil felt that I was infringing on his family. Especially when Íþróttaálfurinn decided to become a numbered hero… And then much later on Sportacus doing the same.”

 

Not enough of having the kid named after the man who was the biological father, but also seeing him in both his son and grandson. “Selfish jerk.”

“He did a better job than I could have ever dreamt of,” he rebuked, “I’m not meant for that life, yet I was granted far more than I had right to. Besides, without Emil, Sportacus might’ve not existed.”

That made him tilt his head and look at him owlishly. “Eh?”

“Emil and Sportacus’ maternal grandfather were close friends, both working as fishermen, that’s how Emil ended up on Skaleyjar in the first place. When he died in an accident at sea, Emil took Álfhild and her daughters in under his roof to help and support her until she was independent enough, instead of letting her move across the country where she had extended family. Hjördis and Íþróttaálfurinn wouldn’t have had the connection they have today otherwise.

“Oh…”

“He was Sportacus’ grandfather in all senses that I could’ve never been. He could be strict, as I’m sure Sportacus has told you, but, he was also loyal and compassionate. Two qualities often severely undervalued.”

 

Robbie chewed on his lip, mulling over all that he’d been told. There was one more thing he wanted to ask.

 

“Then why is his aunt such a stuck up?”

Íþró let out a surprised laugh at the unanticipated question. “She’s just always been that way. She’s the youngest sister, but she likes to think of herself as knowing what’s best for everyone.”

Robbie hummed in understanding of that.

 

Again, a silence settled over them, only filled by the crackling of what was left of the firewood, soon that would run out as well.

 

He stood up to stretch his legs, it should be late enough now for, well, something, to happen. That and he needed to elevate himself of all the coffee now sloshing around in his system.

 

"You should tell him," they said in unison.

"You first," Robbie declared as he walked.

 

He was on his way back when Íþró spoke up from his place by the dying embers. “Look, above you.”

There was a green shimmer rippling in the night sky above them. “You know, after all I’ve heard of Iceland’s northern lights, I’m somewhat underwhelmed.” He furrowed his brow. “I demand a refund.”

The old man chortled at the comment.

“No, I mean it.” He tracked backwards deeper into the recess to get a better view of the light when he found himself stumbling.

The deafening crack of splitting stone filled the air and the foundation shook under him to give way, accompanied by the jingling of a bell.  “Robbie, move!”

Too late. Clutching at thin air after the other man, the ground opened up under him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, there we go. Cat's out of the bag, everyone is a fuckup. 
> 
> Also.
> 
> I laugh at tourist traps that GUARANTEE northern lights. You can't guarantee a natural phenomenon that's depending on solar flares and weather forecast! D:<  
> Then again, I've seen tourists and southerners lose their mind over the vaguest of shimmers, so eh.
> 
> If it's remote enough you can hear it crackle in the air.
> 
> ...I realize that this makes me sound like a snob.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same place, different faces, although some might be too familiar for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise(?) pov, it's dad's turn to hog the spotlight.

When Sportacus had declared LazyTown his area to watch over, Íþróttaálfurinn had been, mildly put, surprised. Though, maybe not as distressed as his wife at the news of their son deciding to settle on the other side of the globe, however, he had always figured, with Sportacus’ high energy and restlessness taken into account, that the younger hero would travel the world for a longer period still. And if he’d had an inclining to cease his aimless wandering, then he’d either do as Íþró and have a main location he’d return to regularly… Which wasn’t too unlike his own case in some senses, though he’d always tried to not stray too far away and for too long. Or, that Sportacus would simply settle down in a larger busier human settlement that’d keep him on his toes, rather than becoming an official LazyTowner in the sleepy little countryside town.

He suspected that Robbie had something to do with the decision, even long before their relationship developed from adversaries to companions. Sportacus had always loved a challenge after all, though, the longer Íþróttaálfurinn stayed in LazyTown, it became clear that Robbie hadn’t been the only local challenge.

 

His son had always had an affinity for understatements. So, when Sportacus had said that LazyTown was unusually active for its population it had been cause for inquiry on which aspect he was referring to.

 

That had been before Íþróttaálfurinn got a first-hand reminder of just how accident-prone Milford Meanswell was.

 

With his fingers secured into the belt loops of the yellow dress pants and the rotund man tucked under his arm, he lowered himself back to the ground with the help of what was left of the decorative string lights in the tree.

He couldn’t help the smile. The human’s hair had greyed and thinned to tufts, and he’d gained a couple more kilo’s around the middle, otherwise this might as well had been an exact repeat of roughly thirty years ago.

His smile wavered. Had it really been that long?

He was somewhat disappointed in seeing Milford in his mature state. With his enthusiasm, he’d had such promise when he was younger. True, Milford had never been that fit to begin with as a young adult, he’d always had somewhat of a gut and was more lenient towards more slow-paced relaxing activities, but ultimately, had his heart in the right place. That the man had found his calling in bureaucracy and being a civil servant wasn’t that much of a cause for wonder.

What he still had fully intact, was his almost youthful naivety, and being just as clumsy and disregarding of personal safety as he recalled. A hazardous combination.

“Oh my,” Milford said, sounding somewhat breathless under Nine’s grip on him before his feet touched the snowy ground again.

“Easy there, that could have gone very bad,” he said. Unlike his son, he didn’t downplay these kinds of things. That would’ve been quite the fall if he hadn’t untangled and saved him. And falling was the better outcome of what else could’ve happened.

Picking up a knitted hat that had fallen off in the tumult, the, much older than memory served him, man thanked him profoundly for the assistance.

“What were you doing up there?” He’d found him stuck a fair distance up in the tree, moments from seriously injuring himself.

“Oh,” the man blinked, “some of the fairy lights has…” He cast a forlorn look back at the ruins of the decoration. “ _Had_ , gone out and Ms. Busybody wanted me to replace them.”

Fair enough. Although. “You need to take better safety precautions,” he cautioned him sternly, “think of your niece, she only has one of you.” Harsh perhaps, but the man needed to hear it. They were both grown men, the man could bear with a reminder of his own mortality and that others were affected by it. Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t know what had happened to Milford’s younger brother, but clearly, he wasn’t in the picture anymore, not under current circumstances anyway.

Milford’s eyes widened at the words, becoming temporarily dumbfounded before he said, “I, uh, I suppose you’re right,” while eyeing the ladder that had slipped and fallen to the side.

“A few lights aren’t as important as your own safety, remember that. If you must exchange them, then ask for help and work as a team with others to do it.”

“Sportacus did say something like that.”

And yet, the man hadn’t taken the advice to heart.

“Thank you, you’ve given me something to think on.”

He hoped so. Always having a numbered hero around had made the residents grow complacent and careless. If - _When_ , his son woke up, he’d have a talk with him. About many things that had come to his attention.

“Think on what, uncle Milford?” the just earlier mentioned girl asked, coming to a halt outside the gate and peered over it at the two adults. “Hello, Number Nine.”

He greeted her with a nod and smile.

“Hello there, Stephanie. Number Nine here was just-”

“Saving you from falling?” she guessed, having seen the state of the decorations and discarded ladder quickly.

“Quite so, yes.”

She shook her head. “Really, uncle, you need to be more careful.”

Íþróttaálfurinn could understand why this one was Sportacus’ favourite.

“I’m heading for the Town Hall with supplies, are you heading that way too, Number Nine?”

“I am,” he acknowledged. Leaving his son’s side for even shorter moments didn’t sit well with him, but he had a duty as well to uphold.

“Uncle?”

“I will join you later, I need to put away the ladder first. Give Sportacus my best, ehrm, I mean, oh dear.” The man coughed into his fist, face shifting into an apologetic smile. Stephanie groaned behind them at the blunder.

“I will, Milford,” he said, his own smile a bit too tight. “Remember what I said,” he reminded him, tilting his head towards the girl for emphasis, before he vaulted over the hedge to join her.

“Pixel’s parents let him out. He’s in Robbie’s lair right now. I just came from there,” she told him, jostling her pink bag to secure it over her shoulder in order to keep an even pace with the older hero.

“I see.”

“I think he’s onto something, he wanted to take a look at Sportacus later he said.”

 

Placing Sportacus’ body in the Town Hall had seemed like the best course of action after he’d dropped off Robbie.

Having him down there had been out of question, he needed to keep an eye on him and the bunker’s location had been too inconvenient. Getting him out of the underground bunker and up the ladder had been tricky in his son’s completely suspended state, but he’d managed. The thought of bringing him into his blimp, or his own zeppelin had crossed his mind. That idea had been altered when, prompted by a crowd of children waiting outside, he'd instead brought him into town.

And so, Sportacus was located inside the public building. Close enough to the general population so that Íþróttaálfurinn could be at the ready if he was needed, which he learned quickly, was frequently, and so that the children could keep the unconscious man company.

 

“I’m sorry about uncle Milford,” the girl blurted out, bringing him out of his thoughts, while looking down where she was placing her feet on the trodden ground.

“He means well,” ignoring the snort from the child, “he’s always been like that as far as I know.”

“You knew my uncle when he was younger, right? Did you know my dad too?”

“I did.”

“He never mentioned a numbered hero coming to town… Number Nine, what’s your actual name?”

“Íþróttaálfurinn,” he answered the question, fully expecting the usual reaction.

Stephanie didn’t disappoint. She pursed her small mouth and scowled. She tried to repeat what he’d said, but the consonants came from too far back in her mouth, making it sound more like ‘ _Idhroda-alfurring_ ’. It was closer than other versions he’d heard, and he laughed.

“Nine works just fine, Stephanie, don’t worry about it,” he grinned.

She pouted in response, determination burning behind the brown eyes. He foresaw further mangling of his name in the near future.

“Why are you walking?”

That one was a bit out of the blue. “Is there something wrong with walking?” he inquired. He’d wanted to keep the same pace as her for the sake of conversation.

“Sportacus usually jumps and do all sorts of aerial tricks wherever he goes. I’ve never seen a hero just, _walk_.”

“Sportacus likes to do as many tricks as he can fit into any task. He worked and trained very hard to be where he is now, and he likes to show what he can do.” There were a couple of bad patch jobs in their ceiling back home as a direct result of it all. The poor concealment of posters in their son’s old room had been left as it was for the sake of sentimentality, and to tease Sportacus for his late teenage years whenever he did come by to visit.

She ogled, coming to a stop before she ran up to his side again. “Robbie was right then, Sportacus _is_ a _show-off?!_ ”

“That’s one word for it,” he humoured her. Sportacus was, by elven standards, at his peak and had an abundance of energy. Nine had no place to judge, he’d been just as bad when he’d been that age. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree there.

He jumped up to balance on top of the narrow wall by them. “Is this better?” he asked with a wink.

She smiled. “Yeah, a little.”

 

Shaking off the snow from his boots he took in the sight of the common room of the Town Hall.

Sometime earlier, Pixel must’ve passed by, along with his strange contraption. Sportacus had settled into the couch’s bolster in a more natural lying pose, rather than the stiff mockery of a life-sized doll propped up by the throwing pillows last time he’d been there.

 

The sitting room, already decked in indoor festive décor for the season to begin with, was starting to look as cluttered with paper as the bunker he’d brought Sportacus out of. There wasn’t a surface that wasn’t covered in drawings. The children were huddled on the floor, producing new art pieces one after the other. Making get well drawings and pieces depicting their local hero in general and putting them up wherever they could.

There were different ways of coping and if this made the children feel better about the situation, then he saw no harm in what they were doing.

“Stingy, stop hogging the crayons.”

“But, they’re _mine_.”

The third of the trio had taken a break from her art spree. “Are you okay there, Trixie?” he asked. She was clutching a black marker in her hand and glaring daggers at Sportacus for some reason.

She made a frustrated noise and said, “this is a complete waste of an opportunity. This would’ve been the perfect time to draw a silly moustache on his face, but,” she gestured erratically, fingers splayed out, “he already has one!”

“Trixie,” Bessie chastised from the chair in the corner, reading a book as she idly watched over the children, and in extension, Sportacus. “I’m sorry about that, Nine.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied. Perching himself on the armrest by the foot of the couch and looked over the lifeless figure.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through,” she said softer, looking over the rim of her reading glasses.

He didn’t know what to reply with to that, so he only drew his lips into a thin line and nodded.

The smile she gave him was watery, thankfully she didn’t say anything more. She didn’t have children of her own, he gathered. No one that was the object of, if not unconditional love, then something damn close to it.

He’d figure that Bessie would’ve found someone to go steady with by now, apparently that was not the case. Another reflection over how much older she looked from last he’d seen her came to him. Crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and her figure was somewhat plumper, however, still attractive. He recalled that she’d always been popular with the men of the town in her youth, though the children had too quickly informed him, with that still developing grasp of oversharing that adolescents had, that there was a relationship of sorts between Milford and her now.

Life sure was funny.

 

The sound of a car coming to a stop outside the public building made them all raise their heads.

Bessie shut her book and took off her glasses. “Now, who could that be?”

“Well, _my_ car is put away until spring,” declared Stingy with a sniff.

“Milford said he would come, but taking the car for the short distance seems unlikely,” he mused aloud. Not even Milford could be that lazy and excessive, then again, many things were not as he remembered them to be.

“Maybe it’s mom,” Trixie said and got up to the window.

Stingy protested, “no, it’s _my_ mom coming.”

She paid him no mind and pressed her face up against the window pane to spy outside, leaving big smudges on the glass in the process. After a pause she said, “nah, it’s Pixel and… Cruella De Ville?”

“What?” The other children ran up to join her.

No sooner did Pixel come bolting in through the door, standing by the entrance, heaving. “Guys, you’re not gonna believe this!”

“You found a cure?” Stephanie asked.

“Err, no, not yet, but-”

The sound of a throat clearing was heard behind him. Flustered, the boy jumped and moved out of the way.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

 

He felt the reminiscents of jazz and swing music wash over him, the roll of dice and the lingering taste of champagne that had in reality never once graced his tongue, and he instantly knew that blatant broadcast of _Allure_ before the woman entered the room, despite it having been over thirty years. Íþróttaálfurinn schooled his features at the sight. Of all the people, he really hadn’t expected this, although in hindsight maybe he should’ve. ‘ _Sjaldan er ein b_ _áran st_ _ök,_ ’ as they said.

The accent was non-descriptive, transatlantic, as she announced her presence, “Milford, if it’s true you run this sorry place, then I’d like to know what in the blazing hell has happened to my house!” A _distinctively_ tall woman confined in a tanned fisher fur coat over a black dress and flat boots came into view and shut her red mouth in mute shock at the scene before her, or more, at the man sitting in front of her.

She had to be in her mid to late eighties if memory served him right and of what Robbie had claimed. However, she didn’t look it. For an outsider, they’d likely figure her as in her sixties, at most. There were new deeper expression lines, and her jaw and neck were not as firm. However, the most noticeable change since he’d last had the ‘ _pleasure_ ’ of running into _Rosalina Rotten_ , was her hair that once had been as dark as her sons, now was steel grey and cut above her shoulders in windswept layers. Dyed that shade he presumed. It was a common tactic among non-humans and demis in order to blend in with the human population as the years passed.

It didn’t take long for her to find her voice again. “ _You_.” The icy tone said everything about what she thought of finding him back in town.

“Mrs. Rotten,” he replied evenly, “or, was it Prosper?”

“It’s Mrs. Riche now, _Longear_ ,” she said just as evenly back. “I might ask what you’re doing here, but…” She eyed the body behind him and addressed the boy that had entered the building with her, “I guess you’re off the hook, boy.”

“Told you I wasn’t breaking and entering,” Pixel scoffed. “Or looting.”

Finding Robbie’s place in shambles and an unknown boy rummaging through the establishment might have been reason enough to make her come to that conclusion.

Trixie looked between the adults in the room, her brow furrowing. “Hang on a minute,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Pixel opened his mouth to speak, however, Bessie beat him to it. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t the only one familiar with their surprise guest.

“This,” she said standing up from her seat, glaring at the older woman as she introduced her to the room of confounded children, “is Rosalina. Robbie’s mother.”

“Woah,” Ziggy gasped.

Rosalina smiled wide at Bessie, striding into the room and embraced her, “Betty, _darling!_ ” kissing the air by her cheeks, “it’s been ages!”

Somewhat stunned, she said, “it’s Bessie,” a frosty tinge to her voice and a twitch under her eye.

“Whatever,” she chirped, dismissing her and turned back to Íþróttaálfurinn. “So… Where is Robbie?”

His gaze shifted around the room and the crowd watching them intently. “Perhaps we should talk about this in private.”

She raised a finely painted brow at him. “That bad?”

He levelled her with a stare. His son was unconscious in the very same room. She could hazard a guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the heck did you expect, really?  
> I've been casually mentioning the woman every other chance I've gotten. I think we all saw this coming.
> 
> "Sjaldan er ein báran stök" means roughly that something is often followed by more of the same. e.g: Misery loves company.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Rose by any other name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter summary, Black Magic Woman, -but I need to restrain myself.

The door into the Mayor’s office closed with a subdued click, effectively parting them from the curious LazyTowners in the common room.

It was a small world. Sure, the non-human communities were tightly knit and not that big in comparison to humans, but that their two families, separated by continents, had bumped into each other this often had to be a sign of sorts. One Íþróttaálfurinn wasn’t able to decipher and not entirely sure if he wanted to.

He’d known that she wasn’t fully human when he’d first visited the town and she had made it clear that she didn’t want him anywhere near her son. A strong reaction, but faes in the North American continent weren’t like the Huldufólk back home and he could respect her wish for distance. The sheltering had struck him as somewhat odd, but the child wasn’t coming to any visible harm and his crystal had not gone off for him. That had been many years ago and he knew now that there were many more forms of neglect. Like educational and emotional ones.

Íþróttaálfurinn hadn’t suspected that the lanky boy with the dark curly hair, big pale eyes and with the air of aloofness to him was only _one_ quarter human. If he had, then he might have acted differently.

And he most certainly hadn’t thought that she’d had another much older son either. The different family names had kept him from making the connection when he’d apprehended Glanni Glæpur a few years later in Iceland.

 

“Talk, Longear.” She crossed her arms and looked down on him, both in conceit, and physically due to the height difference. She had to be taller than her sons, he figured. “I come back after years in Europe, wanting to surprise my Robbie. Only to find my house gone, a comatose numbered hero, _you_ , and not a single trace of my son.”

“Robbie is currently in Iceland.” It has been one day, his flight should’ve arrived at Reykjavik many many hours ago.

“Why is he there, and you here alone? If that’s his _boyfriend_ decked out back on the couch?”

“My son is _decked out_ ,” he said and leaned back onto the desk, “because your _other son_ put him in a coma and blackmailed Robbie,” he continued, trying to keep his voice low enough to not raise awareness in the other room. “He’s trying to undo what he did, so I sent him away and stayed behind to watch over the town.”

“Go figure this is Glanni’s doing.” She uncrossed her arms to rub her forehead in exasperation. He would’ve expected some other kind of reaction from her, but maybe she just was that callous. “So, where is he? Álfaborg?”

He blinked, momentarily dumbstruck. She knew about the foreign court. “No, Robbie went to Baula Mountain by Glanni’s demand,” he replied after the realisation had passed.

The hand fell limp to her side. Her face was blank and unreadable, then slowly it cracked, to be replaced by a mask of white hot fury. “He… You… _What?!_ ”

 _That_ had gotten a reaction out of her. “Rosalina…” The outcry surely must’ve alerted the nearby people and he tried to calm her down.

Alas, Rosalina had more to say. “You pointy eared, good-for-nothing, _devil!_ You sent my baby to Baula- _the monster_ -Mountain!?”

Putting aside his surprise at her knowing of the tales in the first place. He was to protest that Robbie was a grown man, and that the monsters were an old rumour, a cautionary tale for careless wanderers to stay clear of the trolls that had once lived there and then moved on. But, he looked upon the closed door behind her, knowing that his own son was on the other side, and he swallowed thickly. He understood where she was coming from with this. They might grow older and have lives of their own, but they would always and forever be their little ones. “It was his decision,” he said. “And,” he added, “Glanni had made it clear that it had to be him.”

Otherwise Íþróttaálfurinn might’ve gone himself.

She sneered in his face, effectively towering over him.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Or, as in this particular case, a murderous mother.

It looked like she was about to say something in reply, however, she stopped and drew back, holding a hand up and glancing back towards the closed door. “Minding one’s own affairs is a virtue, _Bessie_ ,” she directed to the door.

Appearing embarrassed at being caught, the plump woman opened the door to pop her head in. “Is everything alright in there?” she asked. Three more heads came into view underneath hers, Stephanie, Stingy and Trixie peeked in at them with worry in their eyes.

“Just marvellous, darling.” Rosalina’s voice was pleasant, but the stare she held him in, out of their view, was anything but.

“Give us a moment,” he told them.

Reluctantly, Bessie closed the door and it was only the two of them again. They’d have to watch what they were saying, Bessie wasn’t the only curious one. Small children had their ways too.

He continued, “Sportacus got caught in your sons’ vendetta,” and possibly Glanni’s scorn for him personally as well, he’d received a couple of bruised ribs last time, he wouldn’t put it past him, “either to be used as ransom, or Glanni does not care for-”

“You know nothing of my sons,” she said acidly. Íþróttaálfurinn begged to differ on that opinion. He’d seen what her oldest was capable of and Robbie was, as he’d understood from a multitude of letters and retellings of the demi-fae’s exploits, if nothing else, imaginative and could wreak havoc if he so wished.

Both of them the produce of a woman with low morals, as well as a compulsive gambler and a fortune hunter to sustain it all.

He held her gaze with the same resolve, that the person on the opposite side was wrong. “If Robbie isn’t allowed to go onto the mountain, then he’ll be redirected to Álfaborg.” He’d taken a gamble, sending him to meet Number Eight, he knew that. Though, which he didn’t say out loud, it was likely, and he’d partially counted on it, that even when faced with a no, Robbie would find some other way to the fabled pond. “Your concern is misplaced,” he finished and straightened up from his position to leave.

 

As timing would have it, the all too familiar chirrup close by his ear caught his attention. His crystal was going off for someone nearby. Milford? _No_ …

He’d just passed the woman when a surprisingly strong hand took hold of his shoulder before he could run out of the office. “You better be right, otherwise you’ll have to give your heart to Jesus, or what other idol you have,” she hissed low, a southern accent present in her speech. It was her manipulating the senses around her, but he was abruptly reminded that she was half _giant_ and not to be trifled with, “because your ass will be mine.”

That revelation would have to wait. He wrenched himself free from her grasp and darted through the doorway to see what was going on.

 

He found Pixel standing over Sportacus, holding some sort of device close to him and moving it up and down his frame, stopping by his head, frowning. Íþróttaálfurinn’s stomach dropped, he’d turned off the controller. His crystal wasn’t the only one going off.

“What are you doing?!” He darted to their side, grasping Pixel’s wrist holding the device.

“I’m scanning him!” the boy protested, trying to pull out of his grip.

Sportacus’ breathing was erratic, and he saw now first-hand what Robbie had meant that it appeared that he was in pain.

Getting prompted by the surrounding children crowding them in alarm, Pixel pressed a button of what he recognised as the controller with his free hand. Instantly, the warning sound emitting from Sportacus’ own crystal ceased abruptly, and he was again unnaturally frozen.

“Let go,” Pixel demanded, voice strained.

Dumbly, he let the hand wielding the scanner fall from his hold.

“Pixel?” Stephanie asked him, awkwardly hovering beside them.

The boy massaged his wrist as he spoke. “I had to unpause him to see if I’d get any active readings.”

“Well, next time, warn us!” Trixie griped.

“Sorry about that,” Pixel said, lower, directing the apology to Íþróttaálfurinn.

He nodded, recollecting himself from the chilling experience. “Did you find anything?”

“I think so, but I need my tablet for cross referencing my findings.”

Stephanie whooped. “Great work, Pixel!”

Pixel, however, didn’t seem as happy and they found out soon why. “It’s still in Robbie’s lair. I didn’t get time to bring it with me because of _her_ ,” he explained and inclined his head towards Rosalina, now standing at the edge of the crowd.

She merely scoffed. “Can you blame me, really? And that’s a nice vocabulary you got there.” She tilted her head to the side and gave him a scrutinizing once over. “How old are you even?”

He jutted his chin out. “Twelve.” It probably wasn’t the first time he’d had to defend his abilities, judging by his tone. The child appeared to be a technological prodigy.

“Twelve? Well, that’s fantastic.” She scoffed once again. “Do you know what Robbie did when he was that age?” That she directed to the hero. “ _He set the kitchen on fire._ ”

“He _what?_ ” They were reminded that there were more, smaller, children around them, looking up with big eyes. “Why would he do that?!” Ziggy asked.

“Because I told him not to put cutlery in the toaster and he wanted to find out for himself why not.” She motioned for the children gaping at the retelling of the man’s adolescent mishap, looking back at Íþróttaálfurinn. “So, pardon my lack of faith.”

“Pixel,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, ignoring the disagreeable woman, “I’m sorry about grabbing you like that. I trust you and I won’t do it again.”

“Fabulous,” Rosalina muttered under her breath.

“Then let’s go back and get it,” Trixie declared. “Go, go get it!”

Rosalina spoke up again, however this time not to oppose him or ridicule Pixel. “I might as well drive you up there, to save time.”

He eyed her, suspicion set at the forefront of his mind. “That won’t be necessary.”

She got close as she made her way past him. “You and I are not done,” she murmured low enough for him to pick up. Louder, she said flippantly, “it’s still my property,” and swayed out the door. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d rather that she’d stay here.

Bessie seemed to disagree with that, making a displeased sound whilst looking out the window.

“Oh, hello Milford,” they picked up her cheerful voice just outside. “I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you.”

“R, Ro, _Rose?!_ ”

Bessie gritted her teeth, desperately seeking his eyes and hissed, “ _get her away from him_.”

_Oh._

 

Pixel jumped out of the passenger seat and ran up to him waiting by the billboard. Driving there was wasteful and he’d gotten there long before them on foot.

Driving the short distance, now that was something he wasn’t surprised by in the slightest that Rosalina would do, nor the luxury car brand she’d chosen. “And what made you so invested?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked Rosalina when she herself stepped out of her rental. “Sportacus didn’t seem to be of any concern to you.” There was the threat of continuing their arguing as well. Not to speak of her impeccable time of arrival.

“Longear, try and understand me here. I just want to see his face when he wakes up, only for you to tell him that you sent his boyfriend to his death.”

He really wished she’d stop calling him that. Referring to a racial attribute that blatantly was _dangerous_. It would raise questions of why she called him that.

Pixel spoke up below them. “Why do you keep calling him longear?”

Such as in this particular instance.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she hummed, casting a mocking glance at him above the boy’s head.

Out of Pixel’s visual field, he put his hand in front of his throat palm-downwards, desperately trying to signal for her to stop talking with quick flicks of his wrist, before he’d turn to the hero.

“I didn’t want to ask while around the others, but… Are you an elf too?” The child looked up at him.

So much for that. He stopped mid-step, processing that the boy already had suspected something. “Has Sportacus told you?” There was no use denying it.

“No, his ship did. Sort of… I needed to bypass controls and these interracial interaction protocols popped up.” 

At least it hadn’t been his son that had told him, though the accessibility of sensitive information such as this would have to be dealt with. He wasn’t one to stand in the way of innovation per se, it had kept them alive and hidden thus far, but he’d been fearing that something like this would happen along with the wave of digitalizing. One computer savvy human prodding where they didn’t belong, and _everything_ would be laid bare for all to see. “Who else knows?”

“Robbie, I suppose. He asked me not to tell any of the other guys.”

He let out a sigh of relief, not everyone in town knew, that was a small comfort, for now. “Good.”

Rosalina looked like the cat who’d gotten the milk. “Your people have gotten sloppy.”

 _His_ people? She was the one who had dyed her hair to pass under the radar. He wanted to say that her roots were showing, just to remind her of her own heritage, but that was beneath him. “I’m sure you have questions, but maybe we can talk about that later?” he asked Pixel.

“Sure, I’d like that,” Pixel said. “Wait here, I’ll get the tablet before you know it.”

 

For being so insistent on accompanying them, Rosalina seemed to not object to staying topside and he voiced it.

She replied, “I’d rather not go down there again; the place is a dump. And that slide down?” She shuddered. “No, thank you.”

“It’s your son’s place.” Despite whatever she might claim.

“Don’t remind me. God, have you seen this? This billboard is an eyesore.”

“Why are you here, Rosalina? Really?”

“To look up on my son. He didn’t answer the phone, so my visit is, admittedly, a surprise. What?” She glared his way. “A mother can’t visit her children for Christmas?”

Not after what he’d heard and seen.

“Got to hand it to you,” she was again scrutinising the billboard, specifically the cow depicted on it, as she spoke, “I was surprised to hear that he’d settled for _your_ elfling. And yes, I knew they were in a relationship since long ago; Robbie and I still talk… Occasionally… What’s taking that boy so long?” She tapped her foot impatiently, then looked towards the road leading up to the billboard. “Well, well, _more_ people,” she stated.

A heavyset man with a bushy moustache, clad in a postman uniform, came huffing and puffing their way, stopping every now and then to look down at a paper in his grip. His expression lightening up when he spotted the two figures by the billboard. “Excuse me, is this the Rotten residence?”

“It is,” Rosalina said dryly and pulled the fur coat tighter around her, looking the man up and down, not impressed with what she saw before her.

“Good, I was afraid I was lost there for a while or sent on a wild goose chase. I’m new on this route, my predecessor had to take some time off for his health’s sake, poor nerves you see, but I’m rambling, sorry. Uh, I have a package to deliver for one Mr. Rotten… However…”

Almost instantly, her features became comelier towards the postman. Íþróttaálfurinn had to do a double take at the abrupt change in demeanour from the tall woman by his side. “Oh, maybe I can help you?” she asked, voice smooth as silk. The allure growing thicker in the air by the second.

The postman seemed taken by the charm of hers, his rambling even worse as he continued, “well, we found this package here in the backroom, clearly having fallen behind other packages and gone unnoticed by your previous postman, ah, there’s an attached formal apology for the delay.” He reached in his messenger bag for a small package wrapped in brown paper, along with the formal apology. “Uhm…” He looked down at the package and then back up at Rosalina. “Is Mr. Rotten home? It requires his signature, you see.”

“Oh, that’s no problem at all, my dear. Let me relieve you of it, I’ll make sure that he’ll get the package.” She was enjoying this far too much, he thought as he viewed the interaction between Rosalina and her, at loss for better words, _prey_.

“But, I...” the man protested weakly, momentarily wavering.

“Do not worry,” she soothed, “my signature will do just fine.”

Giving in, the postman held a clipboard for her to sign, as in a daze, and giving her the package. “Have a nice day, ma’am,” he said, stumbling back and away, not even giving Íþróttaálfurinn a split second of his attention.

Her smile was all teeth. “Why, thank you,” she purred at him, as he disappeared down the road and away.

Íþróttaálfurinn sent a silent praise of gratitude that he was, at least partially, immune.

 

Glanni sure was his mother’s son and Íþróttaálfurinn was glad that the criminal only had inherited a small measure of her ability. The damage he could’ve done if he’d had, was... Disturbing.

 

Peeling back the brown paper, Rosalina revealed a small red velvety box. Not caring where she discarded the ripped paper, she opened it, scowling at whatever she found inside. “Well, I’ll be. Robbie, _sweetie pie_ …” she said under her breath, that distinct southern accent bleeding through again before she closed the box. That had caught his interest of the contents as well, but it was too late to take a look for himself now. Pocketing the misappropriated item, she mumbled something not even he could quite make out.

“What’s that?”

“My son has horrible taste in trinkets,” she retorted.

He merely raised a brow in curiosity but thought better of prying.

 

“Yes!” Pixel cried out, popping back into view from the opening, brandishing his tablet. More modern instruments Íþróttaálfurinn didn’t quite understand but did not question. “And just in time for finishing processing too.”

 

The one that had been the most reluctant to leave them had been Stephanie, which was understandable. She looked up to her local hero and Sportacus had often himself expressed fondness for the pink haired girl. But, after Pixel had looked on the readings he’d accumulated back at the Town Hall and sworn loudly, which had earned him a reprimand from Íþróttaálfurinn for such crude language and a delighted cackle from Rosalina, that it was best if it was only the three of them since it was something which Pixel had hinted as ‘ _Other physiology_ ’. Íþróttaálfurinn had gotten the message and had asked the rest of the room to leave them with Sportacus.

 

“Spit it out,” Rosalina groused, having draped the fur coat over the chair she was sitting in and grown impatient with Pixel’s shuffling from one foot to the other.

Pixel cast her a detached look, then turned his attention to Íþróttaálfurinn, who had perched himself on the armrest of the couch. Within a span of less than an hour, he had found himself back where he’d started, having gone from heartache, to confusion and suspicion at Rosalina’s sudden appearance, to hope, and now deep-seated worry at the boy’s pacing before him.

“So,” the boy before him said, looking intently down at his tablet, “Synthesised Glucose is the main component, yeah?”

He nodded in recognition. It had indeed been the main component of SIC when it had made its first tribute.

The technology adept child’s fingers flew in a flurry over the surface of his tablet while he spoke. “But, when I first inspected the apples I found traces of Alnico alloys. I didn’t understand it at first, but now I do. There were flakes, for lack of better words, in them.”

Alloys? Flakes? Íþróttaálfurinn had a bad feeling about this, and it kept rising. Rosalina swore in French from her corner, seeming to understand what the child was getting at too.

“It’s a collection of a heavy metal, not the music I mean,” Pixel spoke fast, “it’s an acronym for Aluminium, nickel and cobalt, hence _Al-ni-co_. And traces of copper and titanium too, I suppose,” he finished, still reading the screen.

Nine gasped. His son had a whole list of _iron alloys_ in his system! “Heavy metal poisoning.”

“That’s why I was scanning Sportacus.” The boy gestured to the handheld device. “There’s something in his mouth. And it was leaking this stuff fast before he was put in stasis.”

He was hearing what he was saying, bobbing his head in understanding, however he felt one hundred miles away. Pixel continued talking in the same hurried tone, more so for himself than the room, about how he hadn’t thought much before of old stories of iron hurting or killing faeries, if elves were to be seen as such, and it made sense that Sportacus would react this strongly to heavy metal and nickel poisoning, since he couldn’t handle processed sugar and -somewhere halfway through the rant Íþróttaálfurinn stopped listening, looking downwards in shock.

He didn’t see Rosalina approach him as he stared down at the floor at his feet.

A hand on his shoulder, merely placed on top the tempered leather. “I’m sorry.” And it disappeared.

When he found the strength in him to look up again Pixel was preoccupied by his tablet and Rosalina was bracing herself against the window frame on one hip.

He saw that she was looking down on the contents of the small velvety box again, this time with a deep-set furrow in her forehead, glaring at the contents as if personally offended. Her gaze flicked to him then down at his son’s body by him, pursing her thin red painted lips at the sight. She snapped the box shut with a loud snap. Breathing in and letting the air out slowly, closing her eyes as she did so.

Seeming to come to a decision, she turned to him and said, “just so we’re clear. I’m not doing this for you, or your son. I’m doing this for Robbie.” She snapped her fingers to demand Pixel’s attention. “You said there was something in his mouth?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dunno if anyone looked up Alnico Alloys when Pixel first mentioned it but there you have it. 
> 
> Essentially, anything bad for humans, such as; over-consumption of processed sugars, alcohol, nitrogen oxides and hydrocarbons, and heavy metals, are fatal for faes. Sportacus would be dead within a week in Peking or Shanghai.  
> Humans are sturdy bastards.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions in abundance, but very few answers for Íþróttaálfurinnsson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the monthly long wait. I've been away on a well needed change of scenery (Newcastle- more like stag-do central) and then I didn't know quite how to put down this chapter in words. Seems like I needed the break to sort it out.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Careful, or you’ll hurt him with that.”

“Don’t tell me what to-”

“Pixel?”

“Sorry, but I can’t do anything about his teeth, I’ve tried.”

“Okay…”

“Well, these are useless unless we get his mouth open.”

 

“… _Helv_ _íti_ … _Fyrirgef_ _ðu m_ _ér_.”

 

* * *

 

He came slowly to and regrettably so. Still tasting the familiar tang of ripe fruits on his tongue… And blood? He noted yet another thing;

His face hurt. His jaws to be more exact.

He swallowed the residues of what had to be apple. He couldn’t say that it was the first time he’d been brought back from a meltdown this way. The nausea and aching of his skull was not quite as common though. Everything was too bright, too visceral.

Sportacus wasn’t one to lounge for long in bed after waking up, despite many imaginative appeals his partner had tested, some more successful than others. But, this was _different_ , the unpleasant feeling he was experiencing was enough for him to wish to go back to whatever dark pool of unconsciousness he’d been brought out of, until it’d passed. He could feel his whole body ache as if from a bad case of the flu and his head was pounding fiercely. His jaw shot throbs of pain and he groaned. The noise leaving his throat incited other sounds coming from above and around him.

“Sportacus?”

Was that… Was that his father?

Sportacus blinked his eyes open, too dry and bleary to make out the too close faces, it was all a blur to him. He closed them again. There had been the familiar outline of his father just above him and further to the right someone else, he wasn’t sure. Instinctively, he tried to get up to assess what was going on around him. That turned out to not have been such a good idea.

A wave of nausea overtook him at the motion. Either it had been anticipated, or they’d been that lucky to have something close at hand, but that wasn’t at the forefront of his mind as he emptied his stomach in the plastic bucket held before him. Pieces of apple and… Something else came up, splashing up against his face in the shallow bucket. He felt as if his head would split, there was a warm arm holding him upright as well as an encouraging murmur beside him. Definitely his father.

 

“Eww,” someone complained.

“Could you fetch us a glass of water and tissues to help clean him up, please?” Íþróttaálfurinn said to that someone, then coaxed Sportacus again in their native tongue as he guided him to lie back down. “How are you feeling?”

He hurt all over and felt weak. “Bad,” he managed to slur out. After a while he added, “my face hurts.”

“That’s my fault, sorry for that. There, ah.” A moment of hesitation. “We had to force your mouth open.”

By brute force judging by the ache, but the inside of his mouth felt raw and abused, as if he’d been gurgling something acidic, or needles. Chancing, he opened his eyes to once again try to take in his surroundings. The plastered ceiling indicated that this was neither his airship or Robbie’s lair. “Where am I?”

“The Town Hall,” a brittle voice spoke in English, and he turned his head to the announcer.

The elongated face and pale eyes were familiar.

“Robbie?”

“No,” the not-Robbie laughed, leaning back into a wooden chair brought close by his side. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or feel flattered.”

He furrowed his brow, he didn’t understand. “Who-?”

“Rosalina,” the woman said and flicked hair the colour of steel out of the way. Something in his face must have presented his utter confusion and she added, “Robbie’s mother, if that helps clear up your confusion.”

He didn’t get the chance to say that ‘ _no, no it didn_ _’t!_ _’_ when his father came back into view. “Do you remember anything?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, leaning in on the side of the strange older woman to put away the bucket.

“No… I don’t…” He rubbed his face, hiding it from the sharp light stinging in his eyes. “Sugar apple,” he said eventually, his voice muffled and weak from behind his palms.

He didn’t understand what was going on. He’d had sugar meltdowns before, but he’d never felt like this before... Except for when… Why was his father here? Where was Robbie? And why was _Robbie_ _’s mother here instead?!_

“Here,” the third voice came back, and this time he did recognize it. That was Pixel! The boy came into his field of vision and handed over a tall glass with clear liquid to his father along with a pile of towels.

“Thank you.”

“Man, am I glad to see you awake again,” Pixel said to Sportacus.

Sportacus had enough strength to offer a nod and a twitch in the corner of his mouth in return as he let the glass be guided to his mouth, supported by a hand behind his head.

He drank about half of the glass’ contents before he pushed the hand holding it away and turned his head to the side to breathe heavily through his nose. As good as the cold water felt, it set off a new wave of nausea. He gestured for the bucket again.

On the second try he managed to keep the liquid down. He counted his breaths and slowly relaxed after each inhale and exhale and then drank the rest of what he was offered and wiped his face with the damp towels. It came off with spots of pink. The blood he’d taste earlier. He looked to the side and discovered that there was a small table pulled up by the woman’s side where Pixel was picking up something with a pair of pliers out of a bowl, no bigger than a small coin and bagged it. There were other tools on the table, another set of pliers, a torch and… A magnet? Experimentally, he ran his tongue behind his teeth. All accounted for.

The glass was removed, and he found himself gently placed down into the bolsters of what he now figured was the couch of the Town Hall’s common room.

He could feel himself slipping out of consciousness.

“Rest, we’ll be here when you wake up.”

All he managed was a, “m-kay,” before he was taken under by sleep.

 

When Sportacus came to again he was feeling better. Though he still felt weak, the stabbing pain was, blissfully, muted.

“Sportacus?”

He opened one eye and smiled. “Hi, Stephanie.”

Her sombre face split into a wide grin. “Hi,” she echoed. She had taken up the seat that the tall woman had earlier occupied, the table was gone though. Her features were illuminated from behind her by the decorations. Some stretch of time must’ve passed since last he was awake and it was now getting dark outside. His eyes didn’t complain over that change. Stephanie leaned further closer to him and furrowed the otherwise smooth skin between her eyebrows. “How are you? How are you feeling?”

“Remember that flu that you caught last winter?” She nodded and shuddered at the memory, pulling a face. “It feels a bit like that.”

A soft snore drew his attention to where he spotted his father sleeping in an armchair by the Christmas tree.

Stephanie gave the sleeping figure a rueful smile and it was then Sportacus noted that she was donned in her tan trench coat and not a winter coat, fedora clutched in her hands.

“Did you sneak in here?”

She bit her lip and glanced away. “Maybe.”

“Stephanie…”

She tried to keep her voice low, so not to wake up the older hero. “Pixel was acting funny and they made us leave.” _They_ having to be his father and Rosalina he guessed. “I snuck in after Rose left.”

He got up on his elbows. “Rose?” That had to be Rosalina.

Stephanie shrugged. “That’s what uncle Milford calls Robbie’s mom. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m glad she is now. Bessie doesn’t seem to like her though.”

“Where’s Robbie?” he asked. Robbie’s absence was worrying and last time he’d been conscious he hadn’t been sound of mind enough to ask.

“I don’t know exactly. Your dad took him to the airport… He was very sad when he left, I think he was looking for a cure too.” Her expression brightened. “We’re gonna have to tell him to stop looking and come back now that you’re awake again.”

He nodded dumbly. Looking for a cure? What had happened?

She asked, drawing his attention back from his jumbling thoughts, “is there anything I can do?”

“Some water would be nice,” he said.

Nodding quickly, she left to get him a new glass.

“She’s a clever one. Glad to see that she’s taking after her father, or mother I suppose, and not Milford,” his father said from his seat after she’d left and yawned.

“Were you awake the whole time?” It was the type of thing he’d expect from Frændi Íþró, his father might have taken a page out of his book. 

“Just woke up,” he replied and stretched.

“Where did Robbie go?”

“Iceland. You were done in by SIC and heavy metal poisoning. We didn’t know about the iron alloys mixed in and did what we thought was best at the moment.” His gaze flicked up to the doorway Stephanie had disappeared and added, “I’ll tell you more later.”

He was about to protest when the human child returned.

Stephanie came back to the common room carrying another tall glass of water and Sportacus thanked her as she gave him it. Instead of retaking her spot on the chair she sat down by his side and he shimmied in against the backrest to accommodate her. She noticed that Íþróttaálfurinn was awake too and gave an apologetic front, though the growing smile gave her away that she wasn’t feeling all that guilty.

Íþróttaálfurinn merely shook his head and smiled at her in return.

“Stephanie, I need to sit up,” Sportacus said and she moved a bit, not much but enough, to let him sit next to her without sloshing the water out of the glass. He felt drained and his muscles were stiff. A foreign feeling for him.

“Does your uncle know where you are?” his father asked the girl while Sportacus emptied the glass.

She jostled her shoulders. That was a no then. Milford was going to have a handful when she got older and even more daring. Which would probably turn into Sportacus’ handful in most likelihood. As of now, it was more a literal expression as she hugged his middle.

“You are very beloved by the children here,” his father said in Icelandic and gestured to the multitude of drawings decking the room. Get well drawings Sportacus realised. “I’m going to call her uncle to fetch her,” he said and got up.

 

Minutes later Milford was at the door of his workplace accompanied by the strange woman that Sportacus had to accept was Robbie’s mother. If not for the striking resemblance of looks, then certainly by how she acted and spoke.

Milford smiled at him. “Sportacus, I’m happy to see you awake. Okay, Stephanie, time to go home.” He sounded like he was trying to be stern with her -and failing at it. Behind his back Rosalina was pulling a face of displeasure.

“Bye, Sportacus,” Stephanie said and hugged him a little tighter.

“Bye.”

 

“I can’t believe I changed in the Mediterranean sun and the riviera for this place,” Rosalina complained the moment the door shut. She added, as in afterthought, “good god, I can’t believe I used to live here for nearly a decade.”

“Why did you?” Sportacus asked before he could stop himself. She did stick out in the small town. Aside from the must be expensive fur coat, everything about her screamed wealth and power, along with something just out of his grasp. He rubbed his brow. Must be aftereffects from the SIC and the metals still in his system.

She seemed to mull it over and then said, “Robbie liked it here. God knows why.” She shed the coat to reveal a black dress and a necklace of large polished red orbs and took a seat. Looking over expectantly at Íþróttaálfurinn. “Well then?”

Something flashed over Íþróttaálfurinn’s face at her. “Now?”

“Now. I want to see you hold up your end of the deal.”

“We never made a deal of any sort,” Íþróttaálfurinn said in defence.

Something was up and Sportacus didn’t like it. _A deal?_

“Not how I see it. You accepted my help.” She glowered. “And, if I might add, made a rather hasty stupid gamble with my kid’s life. You _owe_ me.”

Sportacus looked between the two of them. This was something he didn’t like the sound of one bit and it involved his absent boyfriend. “Why did Robbie leave?” His father had promised to elaborate. 

“Yes, why don’t you tell him, Longear? Tell him how you sent him to McMonster Mountain.”

Sportacus didn’t approve of the racial byname and drew his face into a scowl, however, he was more intrigued with what she meant by monsters and the hesitant expression on his father’s own features.

“Robbie is…” he started. “Glanni was the one to have planted the sugar apples. When you’d had your meltdown, he made demands and-”

“Just tell him what you did!” Rosalina cut him off. She didn’t appear to be a patient woman.

Íþróttaálfurinn gave her a glare of his own. “Glanni demanded that Robbie would get a wishing stone from Baula. How that would help you was unclear, but Robbie and I were desperate enough to comply.”

“The mountain?”

“The very,” Rosalina replied.

“Are there monsters on Baula?” he had a vague memory of the mention of old troll colonies having been around the mountain. Robbie wasn’t that keen on trolls.

“No,” said Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Yes,” said Rosalina.

“You seem very adamant on that point,” his father said. She must really be getting under his skin if he was using that tone with her. And Sportacus couldn’t blame him.

Her smile was crooked. “Giant on my father’s side. _Icelandic_ giant.”

Íþróttaálfurinn pinched the bridge of his nose. A sure tell-tale sign that he was exasperated. “So, your father told you stories of the homeland.” And the source of where her contempt for his people must’ve come from. Old Glæpursson had left the country in disgrace, if he recalled what Íþró had told them. “Old stories. There haven’t been sightings of trolls in decades in that mountain.”

“I said monsters, not trolls. Trolls are common rabble. And _you_ _’re_ supposed to be an expert?” she answered in kind. “Had you waited a little longer and considered your odds then _this_ whole mess could’ve been avoided. But no, instead you panicked. You are very, very, lucky that Robbie fancies him enough to _conjoint_ ,” she pointed to Sportacus watching the two arguing people before him.

“I don’t understand?” Sportacus finally said. Nor did it seem like the older hero did as he looked puzzled with the demi-fae before them.

With a dramatic sigh and eyeroll she rose to stride over to Sportacus. “Hold out your hand, boy.”

Confused by her behaviour he did as told while she dug for something in the pockets of the coat folded in her arms.

Two rings fell into his open hand.

“These arrived earlier today at Robbie’s dump.”

The metal was a dark grey, almost black and they weighted surprisingly heavy. Picking one of the rings up for closer inspection he realised what he was holding. There were initials carved into the inside.

 

_RRxSÍ_

His breath hitched.

 

“Tungsten carbide,” Rosalina said. “I don’t know what the hell Robbie was thinking. They’re highly damage resistant, almost impossible to dent or scratch and are more valuable than gold, but, applied with enough force, it will shatter completely.” She fanned out her fingers of her hand in demonstration and emphasis.

 

Just like Sportacus then, it would seem.

 

“Rosalina, I swear, if this is some trick of yours,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, having come to sit by his side to get a better look as well.

“Why the hell would I go through all this trouble to get a pair of rings, when I would have been better off keeping them for myself?” she sniffed. “I’ve seen enough desperate bets with jewellery involved in the pot to know what’s what and _that_ ,” the woman indicated to Sportacus’ now clutched fist, “is a pair of stupidly valuable engagement rings. _That_ _’s_ why I helped.” She threw a small red box that Íþróttaálfurinn caught onehanded. “Get Robbie back.”

“Where are you going?” he asked when she donned the coat again.

“I’m going to find a bed and breakfast, or whatever passes in this godforsaken backwater hamlet. _Since my house is gone!_ ”

 

Sportacus didn’t dare try his voice until he was sure they were alone.

“Pabbi… I need to find Robbie.” He could feel the imprint of the rings cutting into the palm of his hand. He remembered what he’d been told about shattering them and tried to unclench his hand before he accidentally destroyed them, though he could not bear to look at them.

“We will. I’ll send a letter for Number Eight of Robbie’s whereabouts and to tell him that you’re alright.”

“No, I,” he hiccupped, cutting himself short. He could feel his father put his arm around his back. “What have I done?” his voice came out sounding small.

“Sportacus?” His own voice lilted in concern and alarm.

 

How long had Robbie planned for this? Before Sportacus had to ruin it.

 

The laugh leaving his throat was bitter, caught in a sob. “The frog and scorpion, I just… I never thought I’d be the scorpion.”

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, seeming to understand what Sportacus was referring to. He was after all the one to have made that analogy when Sportacus had brought Robbie to Skaleyjar. “This is what I was afraid would happen. I had my suspicions when I spoke with Robbie… I realise that this is still fresh for you. You’ve been kept in a suspended state for days, but for you it must’ve been hours since it took place.” He adjusted his position into a more comfortable hold and tightened his grip on him. Letting Sportacus feel like a child again as he sagged against him. “Robbie mentioned that you’d had a fight before your meltdown. It’s not my place to ask what happened, it still isn’t, but if you want, I’m here to listen.”

 

And so, he told him about the fight and of what he’d done.

His father stayed silent and listened patiently when Sportacus repeated himself and merely gave a tighter hold in encouragement when needed.

 

Until Sportacus had reached the end.

 

“He was blaming himself for your state and he still cares for you. You made a mistake, yes, but you can still make it right.”

He drew back to put himself together after spilling his heart out like that, he felt wrung out and surprisingly elevated at the same time. Finding and apologising to Robbie was what he needed to do and said it, to which the older hero’s reply took him a bit by surprise.

“Not just that. _You_ need to learn how to _communicate_ and _commit_.”

Sportacus didn’t quite follow, that’s what he’d already said and was planning on improving.

“You still live in your airship. Even long before you and Robbie got together. It’s not meant to be a permanent living space, you know. I’m surprised that you haven’t gotten a place to live on the ground already, considering for how long you’ve been here.”

“It’s complicated.”

“No. Circumstances may differ, but I know what you are telling with that.”

“And that’s?”

“That you’re a man with one foot out the door.”

Irritation arose. He’d fought to stay in LazyTown, against the very man he now was in a relationship with. “Just because we haven’t moved in together yet and you and mamma knew each other for years-”

“That is not what I meant, and if you think that your mother and I never had issues, it's because we sheltered you from it.”

“Like what?” His parents’ marriage was what he had been held at standard for.

“She was about ready to take you and leave when you were little, because I was away that much she felt she was already raising you on her own.”

He blinked in surprise. That was news.

“We made a point of never to bring up any of our disagreements or troubles in front of you. But, you’re old enough to understand that it takes work from both sides to make marriage work. You never know what you have until you’re about to lose it, and I nearly did.”

“You were gone a lot.”

“I know and I’m sorry, I could have done a much better job as a husband to your mother and as a father to you. And believe me, it was even worse before you were old enough to remember. That’s why you need to understand. What I hear from both you and Robbie, is a lot of frustration and self-blame going around. You two need to sit down and hash out just what exactly you want and expect from each other.” He pointed to Sportacus’ closed fist. “Since he was ready to take actions long before you.”

He opened his hand to look upon the engagement rings. Still there, still very real and heavy in his hand. This was why Robbie had been secretive about the mail. The temptation to try and see which one that was meant for him was there, but he thought better of it. He’d have to talk with Robbie before that. Make things right between them.

He took the offered box the rings had come with, to keep them safe.  

“Is that what you and mamma did?”

“That, and… Well, let’s just say that it also helped to tell Skuld to mind her own damn business.”

Sportacus snorted. He didn’t envy Frída that would have the opinionated woman as a mother-in-law.

A thought struck him.

“I should listen to my instincts more often.” Like following Robbie up the ladder after he’d had a moment to breathe. Advance their relationship and talk instead of bottling up his frustration.

“And what does your instincts tell you now?”

‘- _changed in the Mediterranean sun and riviera for this place._ ’

“That I shouldn’t trust Rosalina.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APPARENTLY it's not a story written by me unless someone retches and or cries. >:U Sorry, Sport.  
> Yes, we're getting to it and mention of how tf they got him awake, do not fret. And YES it was rings!!!!!!!!!!!! Robbie tf you thinking ORDERING DELIVER BY MAIL YOU LAZY ASS


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dubious future in-laws motives.

He’d told his father of his suspicions and convinced him that he was well enough to walk on his own. Íþróttaálfurinn had tried to argue that he should rest and recuperate while he instead dealt with the demi-fae, but he managed to sway him with the promise that he would try not to exceed himself.

Though, now he didn’t have much energy to do much more after the descent down the chute; his limbs were still heavy and stiff, and though the ache had dulled somewhat it was still very present in areas. His father had tried to dislodge and force his jaw open just enough to get the piece of alloy stuck out with the aid of the other’s and without causing permanent damage. Using brute force was easy, it was not to hurt him and damage the jaw joint that was the challenge. Nothing short of miraculous that it had actually worked. And, according to him, the moment they’d gotten the piece that had turned acidic in his mouth out, it was as if the tension had melted away and within minutes they were able to give him sportscandy to help fight off the glucose and let his body do the rest.

They’d removed the source, but the iron alloys were still very present in his system.

However, now was not the time for rest.

As of now, he tried to put on a brave face and not let it show.

She was exactly where he'd expected.

“I think you’ll find that the bed and breakfast is on the other side of town,” Sportacus declared. The lair was in the same state of neglect he’d last seen it. He didn’t quite stick the landing and had to brace himself against one of the many apparatuses, feeling weary and muscles weak, not quite short of breath but the stretch he’d walked, not ran, _walked_ , felt as much, much, longer.

Rosalina spared a brief unimpressed look over at him, standing in the middle of the spacious room sans the coat and holding a wooden frame in her hands. “Oh, I know that, I already got a room. If you would call it that. It’s very _rustic_ ,” she drawled in time for Íþróttaálfurinn to join them, landing close by Sportacus.

He put a hand on his shoulder, a strange uneasy expression on his face. Sportacus tried to give a reassuring one back at him then turned to the older woman again.

The older woman in question paid them no further mind and wrinkled her nose. “Dear god, what was I thinking with that haircut? Ugh, the eighties was a mistake,” she said, talking to herself, looking down at the picture she held and Sportacus realised that it was the large photograph of herself Robbie had shown him when he’d _‘repossessed_ ’ it from Town Hall. “And that tiara?” She shuddered in visible disgust, reminding him that much more of Robbie’s own mannerism.

She had to have gone digging around the lair to find the picture in the first place, Robbie hadn’t had it lying around in the open, as far as he’d taken notice of. “You’re trespassing and have no right going through Robbie’s personal belongings.”

“And yours too I presume?” She gave him a too complacent look and Sportacus saw that some of his own belongings had been moved since he’d last seen them. “Should you not still be bedbound?” she asked, the same wry expression adorning her face as she added, “besides, legally, it’s _my_ bunker,” as if that did in fact give her all the right to go through their things.

“Yours?” That Robbie was living in an underground haunt was something he’d accepted at face value since the start and grown used to, but that this _seemingly_ normal woman would, was a bit strange.

“Yes, and what was above it once.” She moved across the floor to put the picture down, front downwards, on one of the counters. He saw with an uneasy feeling that the book was there as well, if she had anything to think or say about it she did not let it show and said instead, “I left it for Robbie. The equivalent of refusing to move out of the basement in a way, I suppose. Though, it didn’t look like this before, and he hadn’t needed to get rid of the actual house,” she grumbled, “that boy, I swear.”

They were getting side tracked. He crossed his arms and asked, opting for being blunt with her, “why are you here? In LazyTown.”

“Not this again,” she said and sighed, before she turned her full attention to him.

 

And then… Something had shifted.

 

Music, a remnant of it, as if drifting down a late night street, air thick and warm, the satisfaction of a wager. The woman before him smiled, her earlier sharp features having grown soft and inviting. Motherly almost, caring, safe.

“There’s no need for this nonsense,” she said sweetly.

 _‘No, not at all._ ’ He felt almost ashamed that he’d been brusque just earlier, but there was nothing but forgiveness towards him and his gross transgression. Sportacus nodded his head.

“You should leave and rest. Let your father right this _iniquit_ _é_.”

“Yes,” he agreed out loud.

Someone said his name close by.

A callused hand took hold of his arm, hard enough to shoot pain up his already sore limb. “ _Rosalina, stop that!_ ” his father barked, and it was enough for Sportacus to blink and shake his head to snap out of whatever had taken hold of him and he realised that he had moved across the room back towards the exit. What had just…

An Allure?

The woman sneered. No trace of the comeliness left on her face.

He shuddered, it was all too much like Glanni.

‘ _Allure_ ’, he repeated the word in his head. Robbie had a little of it, when using glamours it was there, like an undercurrent. His own personal insignia under the illusion if his hamr, reminding Sportacus of the sharp tang of burnt metal and sugar, of ozone, a thrumming beat, somewhat close of the older demi-fae’s before him. Same instruments, but playing a different more upbeat  _tune_.

Sportacus rubbed his brow. Feeling like he’d been hit in the head by a stray ball and not doing his ache any favours. She was only half giant. His state must be worse than he’d thought, if he was _this_ easily swayed.

Or, she’d had a lot of practice.

 

“It was worth a shot,” she said flippantly and shrugged.

His father only stared her down. “You knew what Glanni was up to,” he said in Sportacus’ stead.

Her gaze shifted between the two men, before she pursed her mouth in displeasure to look down upon them. “I came here because Robbie didn’t answer his phone and I expected the worst.” She gestured to the remains of the telephone. “Now I know why.”

Not quite an admission, but close enough. “So you did know,” Sportacus said, having found his voice again.

“I had my suspicions” she admitted finally and seated herself in the fiery orange recliner. Her next choice of words surprised him however, even if he would agree, he didn’t expect them from _her_ , “I love Glanni, as much as I can anyway. But, I don’t want him anywhere near me, or his brother. Glanni is human, but there’s nothing _human_ about him.”

Sportacus gaped, he did not have much to spare for the criminal, but hearing the man’s own mother say something like that?

The look she gave him was tired. “There is only so much a mother’s love can withstand. He’s incapable of love himself, and I learnt that the hard way, over and over again. He’ll _use_ you until you’re no longer _of use_. No, I rather he stay where he is. Far away. Last time he stole Robin’s ring. And that’s when I’d had enough.”

“ _Robin?_ ”

“Robbie’s father,” she supplied. “All I had left of him. What was safe to keep anyway… And Robbie was not one of those things.” Another sigh.

A strange choice of words.

“How did you know?”

“Glanni only care about money and what passes for power, but he lacks foresight and grace, try as he might. But I suppose I’m partly to blame, I was foolish enough to tell him about what I knew about the naked man orchid when he asked, claiming that he was looking into trade and acclaimed properties. Slap on the word ‘ _aphrodisiac_ ’ on anything and it is bound to sell. Had I known what he’d had in mind… And not long after that Robbie calls me to ask about his father, for the first time since he was a child. I can put two and two together. _Then_ Glanni contacts me again about _iron_. That time I did hang up, but I had a _feeling_ that would not go away. So,” she leaned back, hands on each armrest and crossed her legs, “here I am.” Cocking a thin painted eyebrow. “Happy now?”

Far from it. “You…” She knew of Robbie’s reaction to the flowers then. “You thought he’d use the iron, _on Robbie?_ ” That thought had not crossed his mind and it made his stomach churn.

“I did, though I see now that the intended target was someone far easier. Had Glanni planned to try and see how Robbie reacted, he’d sent something he’d actually consume.”

True, Robbie would not willingly eat sportscandy, despite many tries on his part, it was as unsuccessful as his attempts at trying to lure Sportacus into sedentary things. It was just not part of his nature -any of theirs.

“Do you know where Glanni is?” Íþróttaálfurinn inquired.

“No, if I did I wouldn’t be here wasting words with your kind. I’d be out there wringing his ears off, and then some. Are we done?”

“I have another question, actually,” he asked. It had been niggling in the back of his mind for years and he was finally face to face with the person responsible. “Why didn’t Robbie go to school?”

Her brow rose in astonishment. “ _That_ _’s_ what you want to know? He did not tell you himself?”

Beside an aversion to institutions? No. He just looked at her until she gave in with a disgruntled sigh.

“I tried to home school him… It went about as well as you can imagine, almost as bad as trying to make him eat properly. After a while it was easier to sweet talk the education officials and feed him cake than have him starve.”

“It’s child neglect,” his father said.

“He was allowed his hobbies,” she retorted, “I did my part, clothed, fed him. I’d say he’s done alright by himself.” She gesticulated to the inventions around them. “Better than Glanni who did have a scholarship and threw it away.”

Financially, Robbie might’ve, yes.

Except he was socially and emotionally stunted, and suffered from it long into adulthood.

And not only that.

“He should have been at least privately tutored by someone qualified,” his father supplied, “if it was too much for you.”

Rosalina scowled for real now, sneering at his father. “Alright, you want to know _why?_ I did what I could. I think it was shortly after he turned seven… Or eight… Anyway, Glanni had already run off somewhere, so he must’ve been eight come to think of it.”

“Rosalina,” his father warned.

She ignored his tone and continued, “I found him arguing with his dolls.”

He sounded disconcerted, unsure where she was heading with this, and Sportacus feeling the very same, “that’s not unusual for children, to play pretend.”

“It is when the figurines are _arguing back_.”

Sportacus realised with a start. “Magic,” he said. Robbie’s hereditary magic from his father’s side must’ve manifested itself at that age. He’d claimed before that there was something about the dolls and robot’s he made, that they were ‘ _iffy_ ’.

“Exactly,” she confirmed. “So, I packed up and moved before anyone caught on. I don’t know what it is about this place, if it’s lay lines or general mind-numbingness, but he loved it here. Can’t say I share the sentiment, but he _belongs_ here. This is, I suppose the local word is, his _mound_.”

“You hadn’t needed to isolate him,” his father argued,” you could have contacted any of the non-human communities.”

Rosalina spat, “ _what fucking communities?!_ ” She slammed down the open palm of her hand hard with a bang on the side table, making the fork on the empty and neglected platter from much earlier pivot away and clatter to the floor. “ _The Seelie?_ ” Her laugh was a bitter one. “Those were the ones that had a fucking honour-killing on Robin!”

Sportacus gut dropped. _What?!_

“Or the _Unseelie_?” she continued, before the implications could settle in fully for him, “I’d never see Robbie again once they’d sunk their claws into him. It’s a dog eats dog, and with no love to spare for us courtless. And my own father passing away shortly thereafter, not that that would’ve helped much. I did what I had to do until he was old enough.”

Even if she’d effectively made him dislike her, it would seem.

Íþróttaálfurinn argued, “you could have asked for _our_ help when _I_ was here.”

“I trust you about half the distance that I could throw you. You cause more trouble than you’re worth and make things worse. That young boy told me about the camera over there.” She jabbed a finger over at the basket in the kitchen area, Sportacus took in the mayhem of sugar apples and sheets of paper scattered around it this time. His father had briefed him in on that it had been their only way of contact with Glanni. “Am I to trust in the fool that jumped the gun, and didn’t even spare the thought that you _idiots_ could have replaced the phone?”

His lips drew into a thin line, and Sportacus was reluctantly finding himself agreeing with the demi-fae glowering back at them. No need for charms and mind tricks to point out that Íþróttaálfurinn had acted heedlessly.

An uneasy silence settled over them. This was a lot to take in, yet it only made more questions arise. He’d had no idea about Robbie’s family. None at all.

 

Had Robbie known?

He must’ve.

 

“Well then,” Rosalina spoke again. “I suggest you, Longear, make good on your inane title, and bring Robbie back to where he belongs.”

He agreed on the latter, but he really wished that she’d drop the racial byname she seemed to reserve for his father.

Íþróttaálfurinn looked over to him, seeing his distress and further weakened state. “Sportacus?”

“I will be fine.” As soon as they’d found Robbie. As soon as he’d gotten to talk to him.

He didn’t look like he quite believed him. “You should rest as well.”

Sportacus nodded dumbly. He had exceeded himself, physically, and mentally.

“Told you so,” the woman said under her breath.

Ignoring her, he said, “I’ll send message to Number Eight of Robbie’s whereabouts. More of our people should be there.” He took hold under Sportacus’ elbows then turned his head towards the recliner. “Rosalina?” he directed to her.

“I won’t use any dirty tricks on your elfling. You have my word.”

“Is your word any good?”

“As good as it gets. Why do you think Glanni hasn’t been _here_ lately?”

That was apparently enough reassurance for him, and he helped Sportacus sit down and put an apple into his hand.

 

He didn’t agree with it, to be left to wait, but he complied and ate the apple in silence, feeling his strength slowly returning with each bite.

“You hadn’t needed to try an allure,” he said after a while.

“I was merely making a point,” she retorted. “Without your brawn, you sports elves are not good for much.”

Rosalina then hummed a tune under her breath, uncannily resembling the one he’d felt off of her earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when you leave a fic for five months and then come back, looking at the characters, going, "who are you people?!" and, "oh god, would you all cheer up?" Trying to get back into the story's flow. And yeah, mama Rotten is being more difficult and unagreeable than called for. 
> 
> I'm sort of operating on the same political and social structures as in People of the Mounds.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Number Nine learns the hard way that rash actions has consequences.

Seeing someone else occupy the recliner was too strange.

“God, I miss Monaco,” Rosalina stated, sounding bored and leaned further into the chair to look up towards the ceiling high above them.

“It’s unusual to hear that said by one of us,” he noted out loud. Even for a demi she said it a lot.

She seemed to pick up on what he’d meant and stated, “not one of _yours_. And, it’s a force of habit. Mama was religious... Tried to instil the fear of _the lord_ into me,” her accent dipped briefly into another one at that and her next words confirmed that it had to be her native one, “that’s the Bible-belt for you.”

“Despite what your father was?”

“I think it was _because_ of it,” she said dryly.

He merely nodded, worrying his lip in thought, he might as well ask her while he waited. “How did you know about the orchids?”

“I’ve spent the last two decades by the French riviera and proper society,” she humoured him. “You pick up things, if you’re actually paying attention.”

That last part felt like a jab towards him.

There was something else.

Well, many things to be perfectly honest. He was still reeling from her outburst from earlier.

“Is Robbie’s full real name Robin?”

“Why don’t you ask _him?_ You’re supposed to be close, aren’t you? Even got a little book on communication, or is it why you have it lying around?” she leered. Sportacus didn’t raise to her bait. That was of no concern of hers, and strictly between him and his boyfriend. Rosalina then snorted, “Robin wasn’t even Robin’s real name, there’s a tradition of concealing their ‘ _true_ ’ names. He went by _Robin_ _Goodfellow_ when we met...” A genuine smile graced her features and he could see her youngest son in it. “I can never return to Nevada. Pity, I do miss Las Vegas. He tried to slip me a wad of leaves there, trying to pass it off as dollar bills with a glamour. It might have worked, had I been someone else. He went by many names, many alias, but we settled for Rotten, we thought it hilarious, rebellious, young and dumb in love as we were. Well, _I_ was relatively young then, Robin was just dumb, a silly puck.”

A trickster. It was too befitting, given Robbie’s own nature of mischief. “What happened?”

The smile faded into her familiar wry one. “What didn’t happen? Many like to paint the Unseelie as the bad guys, from a human’s perspective I suppose they are. The truth is they’re always looking for an edge and they believe diversity is the key.”

How? Sportacus frowned. Íþró had claimed that non-humans of different sort didn’t naturally have biological children together. Unless… Were there other’s like Robbie in the acclaimed dark court?

He did not get to voice his new question before she continued, “the Seelie is a whole other deal however. You know of their queen, or do you traipse around here ignorantly in that airship of yours?” None of the earlier humour was present now.

So that had been a dig towards him earlier then. Sportacus had been ignorant, yes, he could admit that. He’d known close to nothing about the non-humans outside of the huldu, had known even less so about the faeries in the west and of what they could do by will alone. He’d done a lot of reading this past year.

And, judging by the titles displayed on the invoices littering the floor, so had Robbie.

“I’ve heard of her,” he admitted. There was a treaty between his and that court he’d found out. But, he didn’t like where this was going.

“Do you know what she did to one of her ladies-in-waiting when she fell pregnant with a _human_ man?”

He did.

“They do not like mixing, and Robin’s family turned out to be _quite_ _conservative_. Had I been human, they might’ve temporarily banned him and waited it out until my death. But, I am what I am, and so are my sons. Especially Robbie.”

“Does he know?”

“He does _now_. I’m surprised that he hadn’t told you, but I suppose he didn’t for the same reasons as I. Glanni knew partly of his own, and that caused enough trouble. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.”

“You had no right of lying or withhold his heritage,” he argued. She’d tried to raise Robbie like a human, ignorant of his needs and that had predictively backfired, had isolated him in blind panic and then she’d left him to figure out things for himself.

She snorted and looked his way. “How about you come back to me after you’ve had children of your own, and then we can compare notes,” she said.

He pursed his mouth and said nothing. No, he did not have children, but he knew right from wrong regardless.

“Thought so,” she drawled, taking his lack of verbal response for surrender.

Sportacus could only settle into silence once again as he waited. His afflicted state was maddening. He should be top side. Should be looking for Robbie and not argue with this woman.

 

“Why is there no proper bedroom in here?”

“You’re sitting in it.”

She made a disgusted noise in alarm and rose out of the chair quickly.

Childish yes, but he couldn’t help but smirk.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn came back eventually, he was to greet him and rise on his feet when he gave pause. Something with his father was off.

He squatted down by him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he said. Good enough to stand and walk on his own again. It was as if the iron alloys were slowly zapping away his strength, but for now, he felt almost normal. For as long as it would last.

“Good,” was all he said.

Something was up.

“Fabulous. Then get out of my sight,” Rosalina said. “And god do I hope I’m wrong for once, or you’ll pay.”

His father merely spared her a steely look, features turning further stony.

Something was definitely up.

 

They left her down in the lair, there was not much else they could do about her.

“I don’t feel comfortable with her in town,” he confessed. “And not around the device Glanni left.” He did not dislike easily, he could accept that you didn’t get along with everyone, but…

 _This_ was the woman who’d raised Robbie?

That aside, they should be leaving for Iceland this very instance, and his father seemed agitated. A bad sign.

“Did you get a reply from Number Eight?” Was Robbie there with her?

“I did,” he replied and cast a glance back to where they’d come from. “I didn’t want to tell you with her around. I don’t know how much she understands, but, we just missed them.”

He froze in his tracks.

Oh no.

 

Wait.

_Them?_

 

“What’s going on?”

A pause, then, “Íþró is with him,” he said, “he’s taken him to the mountain. He wasn’t supposed to…” his voice trailed off.

That was bad. Really bad. “Pabbi?” As dim as things were, if there was one other person he trusted, it was the old former numbered hero. Robbie was in safe company, it was a small comfort. A very small one, but it was something to cling to.

His father’s face told a grimmer story however. “Sportacus,” he said, his voice having gone low, softer. It worried him. “I only have you. Íþró only has you… You’re the most precious thing to us. Rosalina is right, I made a rash decision. And so might Íþró.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

It looked as if his father was about to say something, opening his mouth and inhaling, but shut it close and just shook his head. “We need to leave, _now_ ,” he said eventually.

He jerked his head in a positive. “If we disengage the cockpit, I can fly and-”

“Sportacus,” he said firmly, “you’re not strong enough yet.”

“But, I-”

He found himself sitting in a pile of snow.

“See?” Íþróttaálfurinn said, standing above him, before he offered the same hand that had shoved him and hauled him back up.

Point taken, but the method was uncalled for. “Your ship then?”

“No, we are actually taking your ship,” he declared, surprising him yet again, and walked with him towards where it was moored on ground level, a light was lit inside it and the side door open.

Sportacus didn’t quite understand. His father’s zeppelin was faster… Unless.

He didn’t need to wonder for long when a familiar face popped out into view from the opening. “I’m almost done with getting the speed limiter disengaged like you asked.”

“Pixel?”

“Hi, Sportacus,” he greeted.

He looked between his father and the boy.

 

The one time the speed limiter was disengaged, and he was not even near fit enough to fly.

He watched the human child make the final alterations to the programming and speed limiter. Pixel somehow knew what they were, having not so discreetly asked if he could see his ears to verify the rumour. For starters. The boy was near overflowing with questions, most that would have to wait.

“How does he know?” he asked. Sportacus had tried to be careful, and so far, the only other person that had known was Robbie, and he’d promised not to tell, but these were unusual circumstances.

“The ship’s interracial protocols popped up apparently when they sent after me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said by his side. With a sigh, he added, “we’re going to have to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s a good kid.” The last thing he wanted was for the tech savvy child to get into trouble.

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” sounding cryptical. “He’s bright.”

He didn’t quite follow, but, before he got to ask, Pixel came back.

“Okay, all done!” the boy declared. “You’re going after Robbie?”

“Yes,” Sportacus confirmed.

“You think he’s in trouble?” he asked bluntly.

A wry smile graced him. “We’re hoping that he isn’t.”

Pixel scoffed, “that would be a first. He’s a trouble magnet.”

True. A bit too true right now.

“Pixel, do you think you can do us another favour?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, leaning down onto his level.

“Sure,” Pixel said, flipping the visor back onto his forehead.

“Could you keep an eye on Rosalina tomorrow?” As if in afterthought, he added, “and the camera in the basket?”

“That too. You know, I was thinking? I can probably trace and track the receiver for you.”

His father cast Sportacus a look, a brief smile under his moustache. Oh, so that’s what he’d meant.

“Let me sync with the interface and…” Pixel’s voice turned into a mumble as he tapped away.

 

They’d barely closed the door. “Hold on,” was all the warning he got before Íþróttaálfurinn jumped into the pilot’s seat and had them take off.

He nearly toppled over and called up a platform to do hold onto. “Woah,” he managed out and steadied himself.

 

Sportacus knew his ship from the inside and out, yet he’d never experienced it moving like _this_ before.

He was in silent awe over how quickly they made it. Awed, and immensely grateful.

 

It lifted his spirit. Reassuring him that things would be okay.

 

“We’re here,” he heard him say from the front and he looked past the older man to see lights in the distance beneath them as they passed the coastal line and the cities there, further inland and towards Borgarfjörður and the phantom of the first light of the day facing them. He confirmed their destination. “We’re meeting up at the mountain with Eight.”

A thought crossed his mind. He wasn’t quite certain, he’d been unconscious for some time and his circadian rhythm was already a bit thrown for a loop, but he was sure enough that he’d gotten the date right. “Hey, isn’t it the winter solstice?”

“It is… Was,” Íþróttaálfurinn replied.

His father’s old hot air balloon was hovering in the distance and they hailed her, receiving a confirmation and where to moor.

With the dim light of their own torches of the ship he made out a multitude of footprints leading up and down the mountainside. Far more than for only two persons.

“Who’s footprints are these?” he said out loud to himself.

He hadn’t expected his father to reply, sounding oddly detached, “the trolls that live here. They come up every year to resupply.”

He startled in surprise at the new information. “They’re still here? Didn’t you say that there hadn’t been any sightings in decades?”

“Some stayed behind. Eight is waiting for us,” was his only answer as he got out of the pilot’s seat.

 

Despite the multitude of tracks leading up and down and all around the sides of the mountain, the snow was eerily fresh and untouched on the very top. Save for the remains of a fire, cold and burnt out since many hours ago. Physical evidence that people had been there, but no current sign of his partner, or the old former hero.

Number Eight was there however, awaiting them and holding a lantern that cast long shadows around them, as austere as he’d ever recalled.

“Number Nine,” she greeted them, “and Ten. I’m pleased to see that you’re better.”

“Where’s Robbie,” his father asked, skipping pleasantries, “and Íþró?”

“Where you wanted them,” she replied. She then sighed, a rueful expression crossing her features and she looked at them with dark eyes. “I don’t know how to tell you this.” She gesticulated to the rim of light creeping up over the horizon. “The winter solstice is over,” she said. “They belong to the mountain now.”

He’d heard her, but couldn’t believe her. “What?”

“It’s too late,” she said.

His father had fallen silent by his side.

“What do you mean?”

“Sportacus…” he said in a low voice.

 

It dawned on him.

 

“No.” He stepped away from them both. “You… You knew all this time?”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s face was pained. “I just found out myself. But, I promise you, we’ll get them back.”

Rosalina had been right the whole time.

Furthermore, his father had not acted strange until he’d found out that Robbie was accompanied by…

“Because of Íþró,” he stated. “Why? Why _him?_ ” _That_ _’s_ what had changed everything.

“Sportacus, I’m so sorry.”

“Tell me,” he demanded.

He not as much sat as collapsed down by the abandoned remains of the campfire and fell silent, until he spoke again, looking at the charred firewood. “He’s… He is your grandfather,” he said, his voice broken, before he hid his face behind his hands and swore.

 

Sportacus wasn’t sure if it was shock, heartbreak, his already weakened state, or a combination of all at the same time. But, it was if a tremor ran through him from the soles of his feet and all the way through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I need to remind myself that I write for my own pervasive entertainment. However I really need to learn how to pace myself.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Íþróttaálfurinn Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this chapter back in the end of last september. One year ago. That's right, _before_ I had finished AtD.  
>  Had to do a few edits though, to try and jam in a square peg in a hole that's turned whatever shape this is over time.

There had been trolls there in his youth, a community that had later moved on when the humans had grown too overwhelming, too loud and forgetting the tales. In the end he supposed the warnings had been to benefit both species, but to little avail. However, why this need for restriction? Why now? He tried Dagný’s name, which only made her more adamant.

“No, Íþróttaálfurinn,” using his own full name, “this is out of the question,” she said, “it is too dangerous on the mountain this time around. You’re supposed to help escort the demi back to Álfaborg, _not take his side_. I know that you mentored and trained Number Ten personally, but you cannot let that cloud your judgement.”

Anger arose, and he slammed the cup of tea down. Number Eight had always been on the obstinate side and matter of factly, but this was beyond even her reputation for stringency. “Do not talk so callously of your colleagues,” he responded in a harsher tone. Robbie had a very good point; Sportacus was one of theirs, letting him die was a betrayal to their own code… And so much more.

“I will and can stop you,” she said.

“I would like to see you try,” he challenged right back. He may be old, but he would take her on if need be.

If she wanted to go hard against hard, she was in for a surprise.

He was retired, not compliant. He still had his fair share of tricks up his sleeve. And, he for sure had not been idle after he’d passed on his title.

She knit her brow, sensing the shift herself as he’d called her bluff.

The woman had no idea whatsoever what was on the line here. Had she ever cared for more than glorified history of dead men in her narrow area she might’ve not spoken so coolly.

She was only partly right. He had overseen his successor in number’s training, as he’d done with Number Nine, by his namesake’s own request, and for his own selfish reasons. And as to why this mattered that much more to him.

 

The same reason that had the demi-fae slink away and try to take on the mountain on his own, had he not intercepted him.

 

He was more perceptive than his aloofness let on, he’d have to give him that.

 

* * *

 

It was a day in the end of August when there was a knock on Íþróttaálfurinn’s door to the turf house that was his home. The small quirkily named human village wasn’t too far off the Huldu’s hill and its inhabitants stayed away from there, most of the time. Unless the human villagers wanted something specific, or wanted to pay tribute to their protective vættir.

He’d soon find a few offerings near their homes, the _álfabl_ _ót_ , dwindling as it may be as the years passed, as thanks by the end of harvest season for his help. It would still be a few more weeks until the harvest was done. So far, he’d run himself ragged over the country, called by the crystal in his bell to help the men out on the fields from injury, the babe left unsupervised on the field, its mother pursuing the lost sheep in peril on the treacherous mire. It was a busy period for his kin and even more so for the painstakingly few that were the appointed Numbered Heroes, champions of their kind.

Altruistic martyrs some called them, human lovers others spat.

However, they never came all the way up the hillside, or past the charm protecting it from view, but tended to stay on their side where they felt safe from his kind.

The knocking grew more insistent. “I’m coming, hold on!” Íþróttaálfurinn shouted. Though most certainly not a local human on the other side of the door, this was not a rare occurrence of visitors, it had been stranger if no one had come by at all. He lived by himself but he was never alone or lonely. Many friends and acquaintances frequented him whenever he himself was home.

He opened the door and smiled warmly at the woman on his doorstep. “Oh, hello Àróra,” he greeted her. She was one of the elves from the colony on Skaleyjar, whom he’d met many times whenever he’d visited Vestfirðir over the years. A very lovely young woman who was married to a handsome, but somewhat surly, man from the Faroese Islands. This was a pleasant surprise, he hadn’t expected her presence. He stepped to the side to allow her in.

“What brings you all the way over here, my dear?”

“I was passing by on my travel back home from seeing my grandmother in Kópavogur.”

“Ah, how is court life treating that old biddy?” he jested.

“Íþróttaálfurinn, how dare you?” she gasped and covered her mouth. But he’d seen the upturned curve of those rosy lips, and soon enough she dropped the act when her blue eyes crinkled at the corner and laughed, the sound pearling in a melodious jingle in his ears. “I should really tell on you, she’d have your head for being such a droll.”

“She could try. But, where are my manners, please join me in the kitchen.”

 

Inside and out of sight of any human that might have wandered out there, Àróra thanked him for his hospitality and undid her bonnet to let her long hair of ash blonde out. She rubbed the tips of those pointed ears of hers, the tapered tips red and irate from being under the too tight wrap, before she tucked her hair behind them.

On the kitchen table was a bowl of bilberries he had picked on his way back from saving the sheep. They were much like blueberries, but their taste that much fuller. “Have as many as you wish,” he bade her.

“Thank you, _Ten_.”

“Now, who’s being the droll one here? Please feel at home, have a seat and I’ll put on the kettle.”

“Coffee should be reserved for finer guests, you drink it like water, Íþróttaálfurinn.”

“You sound like your husband. And, are you implying that you’re not a fine guest in my humble abode?” he chuckled and rummaged through his cupboards for the china his friend Peggí had sent him from the far east. “How is the farm work out on the isles coming along, my dear?”

“It’s… Fine. Emil is probably working out their with the others as we speak,” Aurora replied as she graciously seated herself by the table.

“Good, that’s good to hear.” Emil had adapted from fishing to agriculture quite fast and well years ago.

He failed to find the saucers to the original set and had to resign for an almost similar one for the cups. Àróra ran her fingers along the deep blue rim of the saucer when she’d taken the offered china in her hands. An unreadable expression on her face as she viewed the delicate hand painted flowers on the cup.

“You know... A mismatched set is a bad sign, Íþróttaálfurinn,” she said.

“I’m not a superstitious man.”

She didn’t say anything more, but put it down in front of her and brought instead a few of the berries to her mouth gingerly, trying not to let the juice stain her lips. He drew his eyes away from the sight. It was rude staring.

After a stretch of silence as she’d tasted the berries she drew his attention back to her by name again, “Íþróttaálfurinn?”

“Yes?” he answered absently as he bent down to inspect and add more firewood in the stove.

Her voice was even as it drifted across the room, too detached as she said, “why did you let me marry him?”

“I… What?” He momentarily stilled midmotion with his hand holding a log and straightened back up, closing the lid behind him a bit harder than he’d meant to. This came out of the blue and he was at loss for a proper response. “Àróra, what are you talking about?” An icy feeling gripped his heart. He could be jumping to conclusions here, but he had to ask. “My dear, are you being mistreated?” Emil and he were on friendly terms, but, if even one hair on her head had been harmed by him…

“Emil is a good man, a good husband,” Àróra placated him. “But,” she continued, “he hasn’t given me what I truly desire…”

What she... Oh. He had a niggling feeling of what she meant. Àróra and her husband had been married for many years now and their household had yet to increase to more than two elves. “Should you not talk with your mother, or the wise women about this?”

“I have, and I’ve tried everything,” she said, “even human remedies…”

“But, why are you telling me this? I’m a Numbered, not one of the village elders. I may be old, but I’m not _that_ old,” he tried to lighten the mood. He knew a lot about common medicine and remedies, but _this_ was outside of his comfort zone. If she had stopped by in hopes for advice on reproductive matters, she was to be severely disappointed.

“You still have not answered my question.”

Her fingers ran along the rim of the saucer again, this time however she looked up directly at him and held his gaze.

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed hard and turned back to the stove. He was indeed not a superstitious man, but he knew the beliefs behind the  _þ_ _r_ _ælapar_. Accidentally serving a guest coffee in an unmatched cup and saucer, _a slave couple_ , meant that the guest would have an affair, or would remarry.

 

She wasn’t, and would never be, his.

He had seen to that.

 

There had been a time, years ago. When there had been the budding of _something_ between them. It had never come to fully blossom, nor would it ever.

When a handsome Faroese elf had come to her village, he had almost been _relieved_. Like many, Emil had been drawn to the graceful beauty that she was. And Íþróttaálfurinn had encouraged it even. He knew that he had done the right thing, despite the bitter feeling in his chest when he’d seen them together on their wedding day. She deserved someone who could be there for her and provide her with what she needed, not some silly older man who rarely stayed still in one place and would most likely get himself killed -just like many other of his colleagues had. He was Number Ten, but the grim truth was that, currently, he was in numeral order the sixth.

His ears picked up on the rustling of fabric and the faint steps of her feet closing in.

“I know how you feel about me.”

Íþróttaálfurinn’s frame stiffened as he felt her arms wrap around his chest and lithe body press up behind him, her breasts against his back. He tried to swallow down the lump in his throat.

Her breath were warm puffs against the nape of his neck as she spoke low, “I want a child.” Her hands travelled down over his abdomen and didn’t stop there.

“Àróra!” he barked out and whipped around, forcing her to let go of him and took her wrists in his hands. “You can’t say things like that!” He looked down at her and he had to quickly turn away to the side, clenching his jaw shut, feeling his face grow hotter. She had unbuttoned her gown shirt all the way down, her cleavage pushed up by her bodice. When had she-?!

“I can too. You denied yourself and me what _we both wanted_. You can at least give me this one thing. Íþróttaálfurinn, please.”

He worked his jaw. “I think you should leave.” He chanced to look back at her. Those blue eyes were burning with defiance. A cold flame. “Go back home, to your husband.”

“My husband?” she echoed, her voice turning sour. “The man who never even smiles? Who barely touches me and always leaves me feeling unwanted? Undesired? I’ll die a spinster, despite this ring on my finger,” Àróra argued. “The man who can’t give me a family?”

“And what makes you think _I_ can, silly girl!?” his voice rose.

Blotches of red grew on her cheeks and her eyes more reminded him of the frozen sea now as response to his words, and her own following ones matching the chill.

“I may be a silly girl, but you men are all the same. You take, and take, _and take_. You loved me, then you pushed me away. Telling me to marry Emil! _Why?!_ ” she demanded.

“You know damn well why,” he said, “I’m old enough to be your father.”

“You’ve spent too much time among the humans,” she spat back. “Only they worry about such things.”

“Àróra,” he warned, “this isn’t right.” At this point, he wasn’t so sure which one of them he was trying to convince.

“Would you rather that I threw myself at any man willing?” She leered, adding, “maybe I’ll seduce one of the humans?”

Heaven, no.

“You’re better than that.”

“Am I? All I ask is for a heart under my own. I came to you because I trust you. But, I cannot waste away.” Àróra’s final plea was barely over a whisper, “this way, it would at least be out of affection.”

 

That’s what made it all worse.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn should tell her to go home again. But, she had always been a woman of her word. He _knew_ that she would eventually make good on her threat and seek out someone else. Someone that would not mind a quick rough and tumble with such a beautiful creature as the one before him. The fleeting image of someone taking her made his stomach churn.

He let her wrists fall from his grip.

 

This was what surrender felt like.

 

Gingerly, he tucked a strand of that silver blonde hair behind Àróra’s ear and cupped the side of her face. His other hand rested on her hip as he bent down.

She in turn held his own face in both her hands and leaned in those last centimetres to brush her lips against his own. “Thank you,” she breathed against him.

He could still stop and cease this madness. “If they found out… Àróra… Dear…” Infidelity was not punished the same and as harshly as the humans’ did, but tongues would still wag. Her nearest might shun her. Both of their names would be tarnished. Her marriage, her life.

She hushed him, “you’re a good man, Íþróttaálfurinn.”

“I’m not,” he murmured and kissed her again, longer, deeper. She tasted of the bilberries she’d eaten.

 

Letting her fall down into his bed and him shortly after, warm and yielding under his touch as he took his time, savouring it.

 

Mid-October she stopped coming by. He knew why.

 

She had a son the following summer. Hazel eyed and as he grew it became too apparent, painfully so, that he looked nothing like his legal father.

 

He never understood why they had named the child after him.

Because he would never be his.

Never a father.

Never a grandfather, as he’d tried to argue when his namesake had declared that it was a boy thirty years later and thrust a bundle into his arms. Pitch black eyes that had made him hold his breath in unease, that had slowly turned into cornflower, just like his grandmother’s, as the weeks passed.

 

Frændi the boy called him. An uncle of sorts. That was good enough for him, as they all should agree on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evenly paced updates? Never heard of her.  
> Next chapter we're FINALLY going back to Robbie's pov, I'm so done with these melodramatic elves!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The descent

He tumbled down, sliding and scraping against the ice and rock, and if it hadn’t been for the isolation of the winterwear taking the brunt of it all he would’ve been sure that he’d break something and scrape himself raw all over without it. As it was, he was too preoccupied screaming and trying to claw at whatever he could through the gloves, than to reflect upon this, until he hit the literal rock bottom.

The final impact forced the air out of his lungs and stunned him enough to do short of anything else but to lie immobile on his back once the tumbling had come to a halt and stare up into the crack of night sky somewhere above. Then he took a gasp of cold air, and the full-bodied pain registered with him and he alternated between whimpering and coughing, feeling his eyes prickle and he rolled into a fetal position. Second to register with him was the calling of his name from where he’d come from.

“Robbie!?” he could hear Íþró’s disembodied voice call for him, high and frantic.

He croaked, “still here,” somewhat regrettably into the darkness and turned his face upwards. A shift above him and he thought that he could make out the ghastly hat backlit by the dying fire and the underwhelming northern light. It was either that, or he’d hit his head worse than he’d thought and it was an aura on display on his retina.

“Are you hurt?”

He had just fallen down a crevice. _Take a guess!_ “My pride,” he quipped.

“Robbie, this is important,” Íþró’s voice stressed, “I need to know if you’re seriously hurt and where.”

He tried to sit up and winced, the sci cap seemed to have failed to protect the side of his forehead and his temple stung from where he’d scraped his head against the wall, supplementing the rest of the checklist, “and my head, and back, and-”

A foreign swearword, followed by, “don’t move, I’ll see if there is a safe way down to you.”

“Uhm…” Seeing as he’d already moved into a sitting position. “Sure.”

“Hold on.”

Not much choice there.

“Do you see the light?”

Did he _what?!_ Robbie was about to sputter out and demand what he meant by that, because he was many things right now, but dead or dying wasn’t just yet on that list, when he spotted what the old man was referring to. “Yes!”

The electric lantern the elf had been toting around with from their climb was lowered down slowly, tied to the end of a rope.  Swaying as it descended, it painted the walls in a yellow light and gave him an idea of how far down he’d fallen. Fifteen feet… Give or take. It had felt as much longer in the moment, however, the light also displayed jagged rocks procuring out in nasty angles and Robbie realised just how lucky he’d gotten when he saw a particularly vicious standing stone too close for comfort to his head where he’d landed. Full cover or not, _that_ would not had been something to live to complain about another day.

The lantern touched ground by his feet and shortly after Íþró came following the same way by the rope, wearing his backpack again. Crouching down to undo the lantern to take a look at Robbie, his expression spoke too clearly of what he thought of his state.

Kneeling by his side he held the lantern closer, Robbie hissed at the harsh light brought up to his face and he tried to push it away.

“Stop that,” he was sternly berated, after a beat he added, “you’re bleeding.” Robbie glowered back in silent reply, but complied enough at the mention of blood. The other rummaged around in the backpack and brought out a flask and gauze pad from what he guessed was a first aid kit. “Take off your hat and close your eyes.”

It was hard to tell through the gloves, but the hat appeared damp and he tossed it away before he looked closer. He sat back when the elder returned, closing his eyes and whined again as he felt the side of his face and his temple being tended to. He did however, and unfortunately so, open them to see the previously white and pristine gauze wet and mottled in red. Effectively making him screw his eyes shut again. So much for that.

“It’s a shallow cut…” he informed him when he deemed his work done. “If this is the worst of it, then you got lucky.”

“Define luck, please,” he grouched, fighting the instinct to take off his glove and feel the band aid the elf had put in place. He looked to the side and saw the slab of stone that he’d narrowly missed and supposed that there was an itty bitty abysmal piece of truth to it.

Sitting back on his hunches, Íþró let out a long sigh through his nose and shook his head, seeming to collect himself before he gathered the material he’d used to clean Robbie’s injury up.

“Now what?” Robbie said more so to himself than the other.

“I secured the rope above us. We can climb back up, when you feel ready for it. Or...” He fastened the backpack over his shoulders and picked up the lantern to hold it over him to look at their surroundings. “Rest, while I have a look around.”

Robbie scoffed and crossed his arms as the old man circled around and out of view.

Typical.

‘ _Typical, typical, typical_ ,’ he repeated in his head like a broken record.

“Huhm,” he sounded from behind him, the tone in his voice piqued his interest enough to draw him out of his silent mantra.

“What?” Robbie turned and tried to spy after the elf, spotting him standing just before a bend in the crevice they were in.

“Looks like this is the opening into the mountain,” he said louder and held the light before him towards the niche he was facing.

‘ _The_ ’ opening? Not, ‘ _an_ ’ opening? Robbie slowly got onto his feet to investigate for himself, equally part using the closest wall for support as well for guidance as he made his way over

Siding up next to the elder he saw what he meant. An opening indeed, and by one quick look alone, he concluded that it wasn’t created by nature.

Despite this, he couldn’t help but ask the obvious, “are those… Are those stairs?”

Íþró hummed in confirmation and nodded.

A spiral stairway chiselled out of the stone, their light only lit up the first steps down before the opening curved in a counter clockwise spiral.

“Well,” he wetted his chapped lips, “what are we waiting for?”

The elf held a hand up to physically hold Robbie back. “Not so fast, you took quite the tumble there.”

“I’m not waiting behind, “he protested, “I’m fine.” Bruised up, but alive and more or less in one piece, and damn well enough so to continue.

The elder cast him a scrutinising look. “If you feel faint or hurting, then you tell me,” he said curtly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said and tried to shake the hand off to little avail.

Now he was downright scowling at him, but did thankfully let go.

About time. He did however give pause at the black maw before him. “On second thought… Why don’t you lead the way?” Seeing as the old man was the one with the light, and in case there were any other nasty surprises waiting behind the corner.

He scoffed before he did just that.

In for a penny, he supposed as he followed.

 

Robbie couldn’t shake the eerie feeling as he lost track of how many turns they had taken, making him dizzy. He was to complain but bit back the words, not wanting the elder to make him halt. It was the descent, not any head injury that was the cause anyway.

The air in the space was stale, reminding him of old cold cellars, but the further they climbed down the air shifted. “Is it just me, or is it getting warmer?” he said out loud as he followed closely down the stairs. The stairwell being wide enough that they could’ve taken the steps side by side if they had wished, and noting that they were worn in the middle. Let alone that someone had carved out such a wide stairwell, it was, or had in the past anyway been, frequently used.

Unnerving, and weird.

Then again everything about this was weird, so he should just leave it be and roll with it.

“No, you’re right,” Íþró said below him and halted their descent momentarily, frowning as he muttered something under his breath and lowered the light.

“What?”

“Wait here,” he told him and continued again, disappearing around the bend.

Oh, no, no. Robbie disobeyed on principle and followed, not wanting to be left alone as the elf took the light with him, resulting in nearly tripping over said elf as he rounded the corner himself.

“Hey! Why did you-?” He cut himself off as he looked past Íþró and saw that they had finally reached a landing, the descending curve continuing into darkness and Íþró eyeing the depth, however, to their direct side, and which should be of interest for the elder as well in Robbie’s opinion, they were standing in an archway into a large domelike cavern, its walls unnaturally smooth and pale from where he looked over the others shoulder.

 

And in the middle.  

 

He ignored the protest, and snatched the lantern out of Íþró’s hand before he could secure his grip on it, and threw himself past him and into the room.

The pool.

There was an actual pool of water!

He came to a skidding stop, ignoring anything else but the water before him.

They were so close now.

“We must be directly under the peak,” Íþró said somewhere behind him as he took in the cavern.

“Who cares,” he said and skirted the brink of the too blue water. Vast and perfectly round, but unlike the small hot spring by the cultural centre this had no manmade borders.

Nor could he say that that spring had glowed, a dim light whose source seemed to come from within the bottom of the pond itself and he tried to gauge its depth with little to no luck. Well, magic stone equalled magic pond, he reasoned.

 

“Water, check. Now where’s that stone?” he muttered and cranked up the intensity of the lantern on full as he stalked the edge back and forth, paying no mind to the caution of battery time coming from Íþró.

It was supposed to come up to its surface, right? Except he couldn’t trust any retelling, myth, or tale whatsoever, as they seemed to completely miss out on that the pond had been _inside_ the blasted mountain the entire time!

He squatted down and put the lantern to the side to take off his gloves, experimentally testing the opaque water.

Cold, not a hot spring. “Will it come up in its centre?” he wondered out loud to himself. There was a scraping noise behind him from the old man and a jingle.

“Robbie!” he voiced in alarm.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to fall in,” he assured him. Trust the golden oldie to continue fussing over him. That bell must be broken anyway. Shoving a crystal in a sleigh bell must give off how many false alarms by moving alone? ‘ _Not important, focus,’_ he reminded himself.

Now, then. Hopefully the thing wouldn’t come to the surface in the exact centre. Robbie wasn’t a good swimmer to begin with.

His musings were disturbed once again by the old man. “Robbie!” This time sounding more insistent.

“What now?” he spat and turned on his hunches.

To find himself face to, well, point of blade.

He nearly fell backwards into the water with a startled shriek as he jerked back and scrabbled on the floor, away from the weapon and looked up towards the owner of the offensive object.

They must’ve come up from the stairwell.

He’d met this type of creature before. Though this one wasn’t as physically imposing, man-sized almost in comparison, along with its friends he now saw surrounding him and Íþró, siding the elder who had the same crude weapons directed to his throat.

Trolls.

Fantastic.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” he complained once the shock had settled.

 

A warning, more than his name would’ve been nice.

‘ _Robbie_ ’ could mean a lot of things on its own.

Robbie, dinner is ready.

Robbie, mind the step.

_Robbie, we’re surrounded by angry locals!_

 

“I thought you said they had moved on!” he directed to the elf.

Íþró opened his mouth to reply but was shut up effectively by a lurch by one of the trolls surrounding him.

His own personally appointed troll gruffed something and nodded its head in the direction of the lantern by Robbie’s side, keeping its large squinting eyes in its round ashen face and point of blade trained on Robbie as it did so. Its tail wagging in agitation behind it, a tuft of hair at the end the same tawny shade as the scraggly mop on their head coming into his view every so often. “ _Slökktu á því,_ ” it noised again, louder, its voice scratchy.

“Uh, could you not?”

The troll repeated itself and this time jabbed the blade towards him.

“What? What?!” he asked and leaned as far back as he could without falling into the pool, desperately trying to figure just what they wanted of him. His hands were grasping the ground under him and he nearly did slip into the water, his whole face twitching in stress.

Íþró tried to say something to his captors, with mixed results from the closest trolls. The one by the water repeated what Robbie figured since long was a demand.

“They don’t like the light,” Íþró said, casting a glare at one of the twitchy trolls by his side, then directing it towards Robbie, like it was _his_ fault somehow. “Dim it back down.”

Well, boohoo, he wanted to retort. Why didn’t one of the trolls not holding a blade do it themselves? There were plenty of them going around, more so still in the archway he could spot in the shadows.

Another one of the trolls with what Robbie now figured as bayonets jerked their blade closer to the elf and spat something past their crooked lips.

“Robbie _. The light,_ ” the elf forced out between his teeth.

_Damn it._

Fine, fine. Except it wasn’t one single bit fine.

“Alright, jeez,” he grumbled and complied, fumbling with one unsteady hand to find the switch to the lantern, not daring to look away from their captors.

And accidentally turned it off completely. Great. Surrounded by trolls with pointy things and now it was dark to boot.

The moment after it went black he felt big hands on him. He yelled in protest as he was manhandled onto his feet and pushed in the direction of the stairwell. The pond illuminated the cavern just enough for him to start making out a mesh of contours and the glinting of the metal as his eyes grew accustomed.

A hand took a firm grip on his elbow and he tried to fight it off.

“It’s me,” Íþró said and Robbie palmed the appendage following blindly up to confirm that the one grasping him was indeed the elf.

“Old man?”

“They didn’t expect us,” he said. “They’re taking us deeper inside.”

Well, they for sure weren’t moving up the stairs as Robbie stumbled and bumped, losing track on which one of the multitudes of hands pulling him up and near carrying him was the elf’s.

 

He entertained the thought of going limp in their hold, just out of spite if anything, before a yellowish dim light eased his sight as they were marched down by fewer trolls then he'd initially thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed writing Robbie's POV and I'm trying to get back into it and find his "voice".  
> Come hell or high water, I _will_ see this through.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entering the hall of the mountain king.

“Hey, easy on the goods,” Robbie complained when he was jostled about for the umpteenth time and shot his captors a dirty look.

“Don’t antagonize them,” Íþró cautioned somewhere to his right.

“They started it.”

They had been taken deeper within the mountain, as far as Robbie knew, along with the growing weight of the rock over them, like a lead weight resting atop of his head.

Had the mountain been hollow this entire time?

The pondering was fleeting as his senses were shortly after invaded by the familiar odour of sulphur.

Hot springs.

“Ugh,” he complained at the gradually warming and sulphuric air wafting through the large corridor they were forced to enter after reaching the final landing of the stairwell. Robbie had no idea how far down they were now as they entered the space.

He idly inspected the stonework and the arches now in the sparse light from the evenly though moderately so placed lights, dimmed down and casting long shadows. Mining lamps? He tried to follow the sight of wiring disappearing into the dark. Nothing to ruin the ancient atmosphere and general mysticism like good ol’ electricity. Where did they get energy from to keep them lit?

Just as with the stairwell, there wasn’t much that was created out of natural causes within the mountain. Had the trolls excavated and reshaped the rocks entirely over the years? In the dim light he started noticing a mosaic of partially chipped away plaster and faded flowers from wear and tear overhead. It struck a cord of recognition; the patches of artwork and murals were too familiar, until it hit him where he’d seen it before.

Íþró seemed to have come to the same conclusion regarding their surroundings and said, “so that’s what happened to the church ruins.”

Well, why reinvent the wheel, or as in this case, why chop and chisel out building blocks when they were already there ready for the taking.

 

The corridor opened up and they found themselves entering a vast chamber. The air as well had grown hotter, thicker, making the outerwear he was donned in insufferable and Robbie was now sweating bullets, feeling dizzy and lightheaded.

A scratchy annoying chattering began as they entered the cavernous hall of chiselled rock and he came to realise that every dark nook and cranny had at least one pale round face peering out at them in ill-concealed curiosity, eyes glinting almost luminous in the poor light that there was.

“Yeah, this is just slightly creepy,” he said.

There had to be dozens, maybe hundreds of them. Escape seemed to have a snowball’s chance in hell, just as much as it had in the stuffy atmosphere they were in already.

If he could just be allowed to at least unzip the jacket. His hand was twitching to try and reach up under his chin to unzip when he was abruptly jostled and he bit back a curse.

“They’re scared of us,” the elf said, having come close by his side again.

That was a first. “As they should be,” Robbie sniffed.

Íþró glared. “No, fear can lead to… Unsavoury actions.”

“Right, right,” he said. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering, and all that stuff.”

The elder gave him an odd look.

“Completely wasted on you,” Robbie groused and tried to look further ahead past the trolls in front of him.

 

“ _Af hverju ertu kominn aftur?_ ” a voice bellowed and echoed across the expanse, seeming to grow in strength by the design of the chamber, making the captured pair snap their heads in direction of its original source and the trolls surrounding them scramble about to shuffle them towards it. In the frenzy of bringing them in, it was a wonder no one’s tail got stepped on, despite Robbie’s best efforts.  

The voice had an owner.

A big one.

By size, this was more what Robbie was accustomed to. The troll before them was at least ten feet tall... _Sitting._

Robbie assumed that the slab of rock and wooden ornaments were supposed to resemble a throne of sorts on a plateau overlooking the hall. Carved knots and plaits into the woodwork that were within view drew his thoughts back to the dark ages, or was it the Viking age? Given where they actually were, it had to be the latter that had inspired the gaudy thing.

Its occupant wasn’t that much better, spilling out in a display of skin flaps and moles.

“For the love of- _Please put on a shirt_ ,” he whined under his breath, Íþró cast him a stern look in silent reprimand at the complaint.

A chin beard was not a substitute for a jawline, or a shirt, as it seemed to continue into his chest hair. He, because he could only suppose it was a he, had large bulging eyes, much like the farrago of trolls that had started to amass around them and chattering, a lumpy crooked nose and a too wide mouth with its upper lip split from what looked like an old untreated wound, judging by the scar tissue. The hulking troll’s body was compact and broad, muscles embedded in fat under too pasty skin and wiry patches of hair that seemed to cover his whole being, save for his actual scalp it would appear. Clad in nothing but simple trousers, and instead of proper attire, rows of golden necklaces hung around his neck and pieces of jewellery that had weighted down and stretched the earlobes of his already meaty ears until they dangled and swayed with the motion of his large head. Even the tail was adorned in bangles that glinted in gold, making small clinking sounds with every movement of the appendage. An old brawler who’s bulk had gone softer over the years, but still intimidating as his eyes bore down upon them as they were presented to stand below the plateau.

One of the trolls that had dragged them there scurried up to the side of the throne, bowed and then went up to hurriedly talk in the larger trolls’ ear. No doubt telling and explaining to him of their obvious find a couple of levels higher up.

“Álfur,” the troll said, the voice hissing the word directed towards Íþró, sounding accusing by his sheer existence.

“Let me talk to him. You,” he said out of the side of his mouth pointedly towards Robbie, “keep quiet.”

Robbie pulled a face.

He presented himself and bowed in a flourish, his head almost knocking against his knees and straightened back up with a snap.

“Þú ert ekki frá dalnum,” the troll grunted out to the elder.

Íþró gave a short negative. He then seemed to ask him something in return.

“Konungur Dovre,” the troll said.

The corner of Íþró’s lip twitched into a wry expression that he schooled back into the aloof one he’d let worn earlier.

Robbie couldn’t do much else but to look on and guess every other word that did sound vaguely familiar. “What are you talking about?” he tried to ask sotto voce, his curiosity and ill patience outweighing the earlier caution from the elder.

For his trouble he received a subtle jab in his arm by the other’s elbow, reminding him to keep it shut.

“What?” he protested in indignation from the uncalled treatment.

Íþró leaned in, though not tearing his gaze off the troll he was initially speaking to. “Robbie, be quiet,” he chided him under his breath.

Too late it seemed. Robbie found himself being the object of interest of the seated creature now and the elf let out a huff in chagrin.

The nature of the parlance did not seem to have passed him undetected, or was what had drawn his attention to begin with.

_Oups..._

“You are no elf,” he stated, taking them both by surprise before him. His English was rough, broken, and Robbie wasn’t entirely sure if the lisp and mangling of the letters were due to the native accent, or caused by the split upper lip. “Englishman?”

Robbie bit back the quip of asking if it was his rounded ears that gave it away. “Uh, no, American,” he fumbled out instead.

It seemed to be the wrong answer, given the visceral reaction and Íþró wincing.

“ _Kani!?_ ” the troll exclaimed.

Again the irritant noises of voices began. Some of the older ones he noted reacted stronger than others.

“Hann er ekki hernum!” Íþró added in, hurriedly over the rising noise.

Robbie wasn’t ‘ _something_ ’, he understood. Whatever that ‘ _something_ ’ was, it wasn’t good.

The troll barked a something of his own to the upset group and it settled down in an instant. Leaning back, and letting long discoloured nails rap against the woodwork of the armrests, he said, “so, _Amer_ _íkani_ ,” he drawled the word, “you are in _my_ domain. I am the mountain king, Dovre. Who are you, and _why_ are you here?” Íþró seemed to begin answer in his stead, but the troll, the king, silenced him, “I asked the human.”

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut after all. “A… An honour.” The corner of the wide mouth tugged in mild amusement at him, gums peeking through the old gash. “I’m, uh, my name is Robbie. Robbie Rotten,” he introduced himself.

The troll repeated his name. Barely making the _R_ ’s roll and having his name coming out in a mangled mockery.

He in turn nodded and tried not to visibly shudder.

“How, uh, your English is very good?” he tried. The pleased reaction he got told him that he’d said the right thing this time around and he asked, “where did you learn it?” Considering that the nattering that went on around them was Icelandic and the trolls that had apprehended them hadn’t understood him earlier.

“Books,” the mountain king supplemented, gloating, judging by the tone. Glad over the opportunity to display his linguistic abilities Robbie would bet.

It made things easier for him to understand what was going on, however, it probably also meant that the troll understood anything he said in turn, for better and for worse. No backtalking then.

“Why are you here,” Dovre repeated, “Rotten?”

“Right, right, about that. We’re here for the stone in the pond upstairs, so if _your_ _highness_ don’t mind, we’ll just head up again, and then we’ll be on our way,” he said. They’d already been so if these lumbering bozos hadn’t snatched them up and bullied them here.

Dovre scowled. “You want… The stone?”

“Óskinsteinninn,” Íþró supplemented in explanation.

A murmur settled over the cavernous room to echo back and forth, at the word of the stone, scratchy, adenoidal, and downright grating on Robbie’s nerves now.

Sadly, not as badly as the laugh leaving the throat of Dovre. “The wishing stone?” he laughed, spit flying from his gums and making Robbie cringe in disgust, and judging by the pinched expression of the elder by his side, he wasn’t alone in feeling so. The troll was in near hysterics and held his middle as he folded in on himself on his tacky throne.

“What’s so funny?” ha demanded and narrowly avoided another elbow directed towards him by the elf.

Dovre subdued his laughter enough to chortle, “if you seek the wishing stone, then it is since long gone.”

“E, eh, _excuse me?_ ” Robbie sputtered.

“Baula took it for themselves, years ago.”

Okay, now he’d lost him. Maybe his English wasn’t that good after all. Baula? The mountain?

“We are what stands between the creature and the _wasteland_ of _your_ surface.”

“I… What?” _Wasteland?_ Sure it wasn’t the most densely populated place, and yeah, infrastructure sucked, and the weather sucked, and… Okay, the troll had a fair point.

“That is the bargain we have with the elves,” he continued. “We’ll keep Baula from the surface and in turn, we’ll get our supplies, and our independency.”

Robbie stared at Íþró. _The elves?!_

The look the elf returned was as wide eyed and bewildered at the information, giving him the most miniscule of negative shakes.

“How…” he was looking for the right words, “how long ago was this, uh, so called deal?”

“We’ve had the mountain for hundreds of years,” he replied. “And nearly eighty as _mine_ to rule.”

Something was getting lost in translation here, but, if he understood right, they’d’ been in here for a long, _long_ , time. Eighty years at least.

Robbie was roused out of his jumbled thoughts by the king’s distorted voice. “Is the stone that important to you?”

More than the puffed up monarch could imagine. He glowered up at him, meeting a calculating look on the round disfigured face. “Very.”

Dovre snorted at the curt reply, seeming to find it amusing where Robbie found none of it. “If you want it, you’ll have to take it from Baula. Our deal is to keep them away from the surface, however,” he said and settled on his side, the grin he gave them was wide and showing yellowed splinters for teeth, “I have no reason not to let people outside of my own down their den. What is another elf? An old one at that,” he leered at Íþró. “But, _you_ ,” he said and cast his large eyes on Robbie again, “it would be a shame to let something _happen_. The grotto is not for humans.”

Well, neither was being surrounded by trolls, yet here Robbie was.

“I _need_ that stone.”

He tilted his head. “Is _that_ what you wish?”

Why was it so hard for people to get it?! “Yh,” his voice broke, “yes,” he managed to force out.

The king fell silent for a while, then said, “such a waste.” He then barked something, another order, to the underlings that had accompanied Robbie and Íþró, and they scurried away, back to where they’d come from. Most likely to continue their supply run then and only leaving behind a choice few to escort them. Thankfully they put away their blades, for now, some still looked quite twitchy however. “We will open the lower gates for you, after I have overseen my scouts going to the surface.” He grinned down at Robbie yet again, saying, “enjoy our hospitality until then. If you’d change your mind. It’s been long since we’ve had _guests_.”

He didn’t like a single word in that sentence.

After? They didn’t have time for after!

He was to protest, but the elf, that _traitor_ , had him silenced by grabbing his shoulder and tugging him back to follow their escorts.

 

“Did you know about this?” he hissed at Íþró as they were marched to the other end of the hall.

“I promise you, I did not,” he said back. “He asked if I was from the valley, he must’ve meant Sátudalur… It’s an elven settlement not too far from here. It has to be where the trolls we met are going.” His voice grew cold, “trust me, I will have words with Dagný when we get out.”

“ _If_ we get out you mean.”

“No,” he stated. “ _When_.”

Glad to hear that one of them was delusional enough, Robbie could always cling onto the other’s optimism and resolution.

“Who the hell is Baula?” he said aloud what had bewildered him, caused by the royal troll’s weird wording. “It’s not the mountain, is it?” Hoping that the elf would cast some light on it, and hopefully something good for a change.

No greater luck there.

“I don’t think so. It sounds like there is another huldu here, deeper in.”

“Monster?”

Íþró scoffed, “hardly.”

He hoped he was right.

 

Finally being able to, he pulled the zipper of his jacket down and shook it off his shoulders now that there was a certain lack of bayonets pointed at yours truly. It did very little to relieve him of the heavy weight on his head and the stuffiness of the air, but it was a small relief until he’d gotten the cover trousers off him as well. He rubbed his twitching face and asked, “what did you say to him? About me?”

“I told them that you were a civilian and not with the military,” he replied as he unzipped his own parka, a sheen on his brow and cheeks flushed he could see as they passed by a lamp, so Robbie wasn’t the only one affected by the heat. “I reckon you’re the first foreigner some of them have seen since the occupation… If they’ve been down here since then.”

“Occu-what?”

“The second world war,” he clarified. “A great deal of British and American military men were stationed here in the country.” After a pause, he added in a tired tone, “troublesome times… I can’t say that it has improved much over the years.”

“Oh.”

He continued, “I have good news and bad news,” mostly bad, judging by the troubled expression accompanying it, “to add to that.”

“The good news are never as good as you’d think. It’s always ‘ _I got bad news and worse news_ ’,” he groused. At Íþró’s level stare he said, “ugh, just give me the ‘ _good_ ’ one first.”

“They like you.”

“And the bad?”

“…They like you.”

“Errr?”

“I think they might want to keep you.”

“Yes, well, this particular Rotten has no wish to stay, so I guess we’re at a _slight_ disagreement here then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now see, Robbie, if these nice trolls hadn't so politely manhandled you down those stairs you'd be sitting by an empty pond for the rest of the night? Aren't we grateful??????  
> Kani, short for Ameríkani, refer to a member of the American military forces stationed in Iceland from World War II, not exactly an invective, not 100% nice either.  
> Dovre's name is not a coincidence. -I will get back to that in the next chapter. Also it's hard to write someone with bad English so he gets decent English with bad pronounce instead :P
> 
> Not much to translate either.  
> Dovre demanding to know "why are you back?"  
> "You're not from the valley." towards Íþró  
> and Íþró in turn saying that "he's not military"
> 
> \---  
> Ugh, sorry for the sparse updates, they happen when they happen sadly. life is... Yeah shit sucks I'm not going to lie, and lets leave it at that. I enjoy being able to sit down and write what little I can on the weekends at least.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the subject of magic

This was not going the way he wanted it.

With hustle and bustle they were taken to a part of the hall behind the platform that looked like a sorts of dining area for the royal pain in the neck. A long old wooden table sided with benches and at the head a giant chair that had to be Dovre’s own seat.

The annoying nattering from the locals indicated that they wanted Robbie and Íþró to sit to the right of the seat of honour while another group ran about and cleared the surface of scraps and old dirty dishes.

Something must’ve been on his face. “Speak your mind,” Íþró said.

“I don’t know where his beard ends, and his chest hair begins.”

“On second thought, don’t,” he sighed and climbed up the bench.

The table reached Robbie about up to his chest level thanks to his height, whilst Íþró’ wasn’t that lucky and with his feet dangling just above the floor. The elf grumbled under his breath and reached for an upturned bowl before it too could be taken away, to place under himself and his discarded parka, sacrificing ever reaching the ground in favour of being in decent height for the table.

Robbie’s amusement over the much shorter man’s predicament was just as short-lived however. He was about to inquire if they should ask for a kiddie chair, when he blanched as he caught sight of chewed up broken bones amongst the debris being cleared away and clutched his discarded outerwear closer to his chest instead.

Don’t think about it. It could be sheep. A ‘ _nothing goes to waste_ ’ mentality among the locals.

Not a comforting thought.

 _Like_ could mean many things. Stay for dinner also had several implications as well. At least the king hadn’t used that wording. But, still. “They’re not going to eat me, are they?” A fair question in his own opinion, considering what he did know in general about trolls.

“Stay by my side, no matter what, is all the advice I can give you,” Íþró said, which was not in the very least reassuring.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied sourly and shuffled the outerwear under him in a similar fashion as the elder to sit on in order to cushion the hard wooden surface.

Íþró said nothing about his dismissive tone and resigned to watch their surroundings, a slight scowl on his face at something. “To think that this was under our feet the entire time,” he said lowly.

Yes, not every day you found out a whole society was hiding within a slab of stone, who knew? Oh wait, that did happen on the regular it would seem. However, something in his voice made Robbie glance over at what the elder was looking at. A bunch of trolls ogling them, in various shapes, ages and states. Others running and scuttling about going from shadow to shadow, giving Robbie the heebie-jeebies because seeing their ugly mugs were slightly better since he then knew where he had them at.

The elf didn’t seem all that happy about whatever _he_ was seeing, and then stated, “they’re too small.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re malnourished,” he elaborated, “sickly. Whatever they are being supplied with, it’s not enough. Trolls are mountain dwellers and nocturnal to stay out of the sun, but they also need fresh air and nutrients, like any living breathing creature.”

“They seem to like it here perfectly fine.” Not that he in particular shared the sentiment and the old man’s concerns.

“As far as we know,” Íþró said dryly.

Robbie wanted to groan and plant his face atop of the table, willing to risk splinters from the musky old wood. Trust the retired hero to still cling onto some misguided sense of humanitarianism, or was it anything goes-ism?

The stuffy air was getting to him, had been getting to him ever since they had arrived. They were wasting precious time. They were on a schedule here for crying out loud. With a huff he was to cross his arms and glare to the side.

 

Two too big eyes, and too close to his own.

 

He nearly screamed when he found himself staring inches away into a small round face and jolted, bringing the elf’s attention to the issue at hand.

“Oh,” was all the infuriating old elf said and stuck an arm out to save Robbie from falling backwards off the bench and steady him back up.

The child giggled at his antics.

Where the hell had it come from?! Any other creature here had been sensible enough to gawk from a safe distance. This one had straight up climbed onto the bench to get close and personal.

Wait, was it human? With a sense of dread of the implications he wondered how it had gotten here.

No, that wasn’t right…

Robbie had to do a double take and he realised that he’d been mistaken. _It_ , was a she, of what he could guess and tried to gauge her age with little luck. And, she was, well, too pretty to be a troll, dare he say. Enough that he’d initially mistaken her for a human child, if not for the sense of something being off with her features, like an uncanny valley effect. Oh, _and the tail_. There was that as well, that she held in one of her small hands behind her and swayed with the pendulum, that gave it away. Black shiny hair in two braids, loop earrings in gold and a simple checkered dress in woven cotton showing knobby knees and bare feet, looking all the picture of a small urchin child that had stumbled in here on happenstance.

Maybe the ugly was something that set in later along with puberty.

On the other, you could get a long way with soap, a hair comb, and clean clothes as she seemed better kept in that aspect than the rest of her kin.

She stared wordlessly at them then decided to zoom in on him again with her gaze.

“Uh, hi there?” he tried.

She grinned in answer, too wide.

Well, that was unsettling. “Can, can I help you?”

“Pabbi minn,” she said and pointed to the backside of the throne.

Ah, crap. Dovre’s kid.

“Yeah, kiddo, I don’t think you should be here, with us.” He had to hand it to her, she was better behaved than the troll toddler outside of LazyTown -so far. “Sorry, but I got no sports equipment for you to gobble down.”

None of his words seemed to register. Probably because she couldn’t understand any of them.

The elder next to him said something, but she merely kept staring at Robbie, ignoring the elf in favour for the human before her. Two trolls with weapons had come to side up by them again, not what Robbie wanted, nor needed right now thank-you-very-much.

“Shoo, scram,” he said and waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Go away.”

Instead of going away she decided to do the complete opposite, to Robbie’s utter dismay, and sat down on her knees by his side on the bench. She opened her mouth and said something, judging by the tone he guessed that it was an inquiry.

Leaning away from her, he glanced over his shoulder towards Íþró and asked, “uh, old man?”

“She’s asking where you’re from,” the elf supplied, appearing far too amused than Robbie would have cared for. Yes, yes, very funny. Kids were like cats, be disinterested and they would cling onto you, by force if they found necessary.

“Can’t _you_ tell her?”

“She’s asking _you_ ,” he lobbed right back. “And,” he added, “she does not seem to care that much for me.” He spoke to the girl who yet again chose to ignore him, and he gave Robbie an ‘ _I told you so_ ’ look.

‘ _Fine then_ ,’ he silently lamented to himself and rubbed his face before he said, “I’m not from around here… Obviously,” knowing that nothing of that would register with the troll child that had now tilted her head in an angle, looking all too much like an owl, big yellow eyes and all, or so he thought they were in the poor lightning. The longer he took in her features the less human she looked to him.

Let’s start small. “Outside?” he tried, pointing upwards.

That word seemed close enough for understanding. “Úti?” she asked, seemed scandalized by the mere mention. “Nei, nei.” And shook her head in quick negative. “Kalt,” she stated, pulling a face and added, “dauður.”

‘ _Cold... Dead._ ’

A string of garble fell from her mouth and she scowled at him.

“Now she thinks you’re a liar.”

“Naturally,” Robbie said under his breath.

That was all she’d seen, if she’d been privileged as the… Princess was it? To have a peek at the frozen mountainside waiting outside. Or, had been told so by her old man…

A dead frozen wasteland.

Trust Robbie’s luck to find himself in some kind of ultranatural post-apocalyptic _cult_.

 

Must be a Wednesday.

 

She said something he didn’t quite catch and pointed to his head.

“Uh?”

“She’s wondering about your head injury,” Íþró said.

Right, that. He’d almost forgotten about that in all the brouhaha. Just another hurt to add to the list of ailments.

Her going up on her knees to hover closer was all the warning he got.

Lightning quick, she ripped off the band aid to look at the wound.

“Hey!”

If Robbie didn’t already have reason to shove her off, he had after she spat a big fat gob right into it. It burned and stung as it hit its mark.

“What the-!” With a snarl, he did shove her, which barely seemed to be fazing her as one of the guards drew a blade towards him for putting his hands on the child, and Íþró quickly placed himself physically between them to ward off whatever blow that was to come while Robbie clutched his forehead.

He didn’t know if the jingling noise was from the old man’s fast movement or if he’d been in actual danger.

 

He did know that that _thing_ had the nerve to giggle at the commotion she’d created.

 

The blow never fell. Íþró said some choice words and the guard drew back, and Dovre’s offspring skipped back to where her daddy dearest was.

Judging by the throaty laugh echoing, she’d told him of her misdeed.

Íþró was in front of him, having taken the vacated place the little devil had left and had taken hold of Robbie’s wrists. “Robbie-”

“ _She spat in my face!_ ”

“Hold still and let me see,” he barked and wrangled Robbie’s hands down to look at his forehead. His own creased in perplexity and he muttered, “well, I’d be…”

“What? What?” he asked. “Is it a horn? Warts? Don’t leave me hanging here!”

Íþró smoothed over his temple with his thumb and stared at the spot, it still stung and Robbie let out a low whine, before he said again, “the scrape and bruising is gone.”

“Say whut?”

“Gone,” he repeated.

“How?”

“I don’t… Except magic. This litlum here seems to have a penchant for healing… Rare… Very rare,” he added under his breath and looked after where she’d gone.

“Trolls can do that?”

“Some still, I guess.”

“But, but _how?_ ” He then decided to add, “how does this nonsense work?”

Íþró sat back, seeming to mull over an answer to Robbie’s too open question. For all he knew he might as well have asked the old elf how astrophysics worked.

“Magic is like…” he paused, then began, “think of it as personal traits and skills. Some people have an affinity for music, some for art, other for calculus. Magic works a bit the same.

“I’m still not sure I follow.”

He stroked his beard with his clean hand and started with a thoughtful look, “Sportacus has told me you’re good with instruments and singing. It can work the same way.”

Seemed like Sportacus had told a lot about him to other people, but he nodded along regardless.

He continued on the earlier and first parallelism, “while others can try and manage to play a tune or two, it doesn’t come as easily and takes more work than someone who’s naturally gifted with an ear for music, or a singing voice. To naturally create and distinguish the notes on a subconscious level. Of course, practice makes perfect for wielding an instrument to play for creating the music and different types of songs. Like runes, chants, sacrifices, or weavings.”

“So, what, you’re telling me that people who aren’t, magic or whatever, are tone-deaf?”

“Something like that, yes, I’d say.”

“And this mumbo-jumbo is hereditary?”

“It depends on the magic, and race. Yours, for example, is more of that kind, but these things can sometimes skip a generation or two, and sometimes even take on completely new attributes. Yours is like singing, you don’t need an instrument, since your body _is_ the instrument and with your own unique vocal range than your parents, _either of them_.” He got off that end of the seating and went to search the pockets of the parka.

That last comparison was a bit unsettling. “Are elves magical?” He knit his brow at his own wording. _Are magic? Have magic?_ He didn’t know how it worked.

The old man paused, mid-rummaging with both his hands in the outerwear before him, then shrugged. “To an extent. It’s more than the shape of our ears and vitality distinguishing us from humankind. It’s rarer these days however, and used as a self-defence mechanisms by most huldu, than actual active practice of magic. Though,” he said with an odd expression crossing his features, “Íþróttaálfurinn has always been exceptionally good with flora… He sure didn’t get _that_ from me…”

And what was that supposed to mean? “How’s _your_ singing voice?”

“Range’s somewhat limited I’m afraid, or I would’ve had far better success with my greenhouse.”

“…And Sportacus?”

“I reckon he’s as good with magic as he’s with carrying an actual musical tune,” he chortled under his breath and looked his way. “Why’d you think we put him behind the drums?”

Robbie snorted in humour at that, fleeting as it may be.

Íþró turned back to inspect Robbie’s forehead again. “Still, this is not how it usually works.”

Yeah… As informative as the old man’s infodump had been, the fact remained that the troll child had healed the wound without any, as the old man had put it, _instruments_. Nor some excellent gardening or suggestion of the mind like allures and glamours either. Just, straight up spat and good to go.

“…Keep an eye on that,” he said and rubbed a handkerchief, the item or close to what he’d been looking for in his pockets, to remove the saliva and old dried blood from the area. Too much pink on the earlier pristine white cotton and Robbie averted his gaze as he was handed another for drying his own hands off.

“I _literally_ can’t.” Gesturing between his eyes and forehead. “That’s your job, I’d say.”

That earned him a roll of the elder’s eyes and a shake of his head.

It looked like he was about to say something accompanied by that, but whatever it was he stopped and looked past Robbie.

 

Dovre had graced them with their presence, unfortunately. Even if it meant that the king was done and that in turn meant that Robbie could soon enough get back on task, the sight was a daunting one.

The other trolls did look too small in comparison.

Standing on his feet, the troll was drawn into his full height. Robbie would barely reach his hip if he was to stand beside him. Being loomed over was something he would never grow accustomed to, nor wished to. It was just all sorts of wrong. “I see you’ve received a gift from my daughter,” he said as he approached.

Robbie scoffed at that before he could stop himself, he could practically feel the warning glare the elder was drilling into the side of his head at that.

“She’s gifted,” Íþró said to smooth over Robbie’s ingratitude. Yeah, sure. He wasn’t the one that had gotten _spat on!_

“She is,” he grinned as he sat down in the giant chair by them. Still towering above them and Robbie was going to get a crick in his neck. “She’s _very_ gifted.”

Oh no, parent bragging.

“Does she have a name?”

The corner of Dovre’s wide mouth tugged again into that peculiar almost smile that stretched open his gash. If she really was that good, then maybe he could ask her to fix that, or was there an expiration date on these things? Fresh wounds okey dokey. Scar tissue, not so much. “I call her _litla prinsessa m_ _ín_.”

That wasn’t a name. And watching the face Íþró made as he nodded told him as much as well.

“We will eat as we talk further,” the troll announced.

He shared a look with Íþró. They definitely did not have time for this!

The monarch had said that he would open up the path for them after he had wrangled his people going on the yearly supply run.

Not sit around for niceties!

Robbie was about to reply when Íþró cut in with a much more diplomatic wording than what he personally had in mind. “We do not have much time to spare, as I'm sure you are more aware of than most.” 

“Yes,” Dovre said in a voice that left little to no compromise in his ears, “but you are my _guests_.”

Bad pronounce or not, Robbie still didn’t like how he said that word.

 

And if _this_ was how he treated his _guests_ , then Robbie could do without it he soon discovered.

 

The plates covered in what had first appeared as fine food, meat and confection, had been placed before them, or rather, that had been the food intended for Robbie and Dovre. Íþró’s own food was simple and unassuming, consisting of wrinkled old winter apples and dried meat of unknown origin, someone was picking favourites, and Dovre had bid them to eat. “This is the finest we can present before we renew our stocks of fresh produce for you,” he’d said in what could pass at best as feigned modesty.

Well, the confections did pique his interest, powdered pastries and sweetmeats in piles with preservative content so high it had made it last for so long and still look fresh, and his mouth watered, enough to momentarily forget about his growing aggravation, or that the king still was averse to the concept of covering his unsightly hide.

“Don’t mind if I… Do…?” his voice had trailed off. Robbie had looked down at his plate and instinctively pushed it away from him. A slight shimmer, as he’d been about to pick what reminded him of the chocolate covered buns he now knew were a local thing, and that conflicting feeling of his senses had brought his movement to an abrupt halt. And making him lean back and away from the table’s edge in revulsion.

 

He’d never pegged trolls for being culinarians, given what he so far had seen of the toddler eating, to his then delight, sports equipment and anything presented before them, and questionably what their parents’ intentions had been for him before he’d managed to make a run for it.

But this was dirt they’d served him.

Actual refuse.

 

The ‘ _bun_ ’ had turned out to be an old spoilt… Something. Whatever it had been it had mold on it. The food was rotten, brown and glistening.

The same was on the king’s plate.

He tried to supress a gag, half successful, and looked over at the elf’s plate.

Íþró’s foodstuff was the real deal he realised. No charm put upon it. Was it because Íþró, being a huldu himself, would pick up on the consistency of the food and its effects on his physique?

Dovre scowled deeply at the display Robbie had put on.

“I’m not feeling hungry,” he excused himself and smiled back. “The table setting reminds me of a song however,” he added, and cast Íþró a meaning glance, hoping that he’d get the blatant hint.

The elf looked at Robbie’s plate and it seemed to click into place, judging by the flash of a grimace over his face when he saw what Robbie saw.

“Is that so?” Dovre said, his distorted voice taking on a dark undertone and he scrutinised him.

So far, he’d seemed to be on the mountain king’s good side. If good side consisted of trying to trick him into eating garbage!

He’d hate to see if he got on his bad. Then he could kiss the whole venture goodbye.

“I’m an awfully picky eater.” he said, trying to sound sincere.     

“He is,” Íþró agreed.

The troll gave them both a level stare.

He looked down at his plate again.

What was he supposed to do? Tell that he’d seen through the charm?

Was that even an option?

The elf wasn’t helping either. Not in Robbie’s opinion anyway.

Íþró took one of the apples, staying clear of the dried mystery meat.

Robbie felt his hand press something against his side and he realised that the old sneak had taken two apples and changed hands out of Dovre’s sight to give to him under the table as he took a bite of his own winter apple and complimented the gesture for meeting his needs, drawing the troll’s attention to him while Robbie took the dried up wrinkly fruit.

What the hell was he supposed to do with this? Did the elf really expect him to eat it?!

Apparently.

Robbie instead hid it within the confines of his vest until he could get rid of it.

What he really wanted to do was flip the plate and cuss out the troll for trying to feed him dirt. He could get severely sick from this, best case scenario. Sure, meet the old man's needs. _What about his?!_

What he did, instead of the righteous tantrum, was to smile thinly and make a show out of reaching again for what he at first had thought to be confectionery, and not a pile of sludge and what he hoped were eggshells, and try not to twitch too much in repulsion at the spongy texture.

Making it look like he ate it came like second nature. He’d had a lot of practice making it appear like he’d eaten sportscandy in the past and chucked it in under the table, not even sparing a thought to hide it on his person, and creating his own illusion of biting down on it.

“Yum,” he said and pretended to wipe his mouth chewing on air behind it, while his other rubbed up and down his leg, trying to wipe off the disgusting residue on his dress pants in agitation.

If Dovre had thought that he’d eaten the glob, or Íþró thought that he’d gone for the apple, it was all the same, they both seemed pleased.

An underling came scurrying with two pitchers. “Have something to drink,” the king said. Not in a requesting voice either at that.

“Is that water?” he asked when he saw the contents of one of the vessels. If he sounded accusative, then so be it. For all he knew it might as well be drool in the pitcher.

“It is, I’m afraid, water indeed,” the troll said in that humble tone again and broken English, which made Robbie doubt it even harder. “For the sake of the elf,” he added.

Right. Robbie still didn’t quite believe it.

Gingerly, Íþró took the oversized pitcher to cradle between his hands and brought it to his face to inspect. “The water seems clear,” he lowly informed him into it and took the smallest of sips and swirled it in his mouth. “Is it from the hot springs?” he said louder towards Dovre before taking a bigger gulp, having confirmed that it wasn’t some sort of bodily fluid, sludge, sewer water, or something other revolting in it.

“It is,” he confirmed again. “We get everything from our hot springs.” Including the smelly, hot, and verily oppressive atmosphere, Robbie wanted to add in. “Water to drink, watering, wash and clean, and energy.”

So _that_ _’s_ where they got electricity for the lamps.

“A generator? Is it part of the deal?” Robbie asked.

Something dark passed behind the giant troll’s eyes. “It is _our_ machinery,” he said.

Drat. Touchy subject.

“This,” he gestured to the second pitcher, its contents murky and dark, almost black in his eyes, “is wine, for you.”

He did not drink alcohol, and even if he did, he wouldn’t touch the contents with a ten foot long pole.

For once, Íþró decided to be useful. “He cannot handle his drink, I’m afraid.”

Call him a lightweight if he must, Robbie nodded eagerly along.

Dovre settled to lean onto his side and inquired, “as bad as a... S _ports elf?_ ”

A small twitch in his moustache, and his smile froze in place. “...Worse, I’d say,” he replied after a beat.

“That is… Unfortunate,” Dovre said gravely.

“I’m happy to share my own with him.”

Robbie took back all he had to say about usefulness.

And, besides that Robbie didn’t like the taste of plain water to begin with, anything could’ve happened to the liquid handled by the trolls anywhere between the moment it was collected, to when it was brought to them. “I don’t need to drink anything,” he said in mild protest.

“You’re overheating, and as dehydrated as much as I am,” Íþró hissed low enough for Robbie to hear and with force shoved the pitcher into his hands.

‘ _I hate you both_ ,’ he tried to convey to him by his dirty look alone as he took hold of it.

 

It was stale and tepid, but it was as clean as it could get and he, begrudgingly so, found himself drinking from it if not greedily, then enough that he felt both full and content before he handed it back to a too smug looking receiver.

 

“Now, tell me,” Dovre said and took a bite out of his own food, and this time Robbie did gag, hiding it behind a real cough that followed, “what are a human and an old elf doing looking so desperately after my stone, _together?_ ”

“Happy happenstance?” Robbie said.

The troll snorted at that.

“He’s betrothed to my grandson, “Íþró said matter of factly.

Robbie froze. The notion that he’d openly acknowledged Sportacus as his grandson aside, the word _betrothed_ ricocheted in his head, tore through his chest and landed like a ball of lead in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuugh, long useless chapter with info dumping because I couldn't find a good place to break and divide at, and not really leading anywhere plot-wise. Or maybe it is. I'm too sleep deprived to tell at this rate tbh. And I had to postpone other things that I said would be included in this chapter but doesn't fit so that'll be for the next one instead, sorry.
> 
> Enchanting food to make it appealing in order to trick their human guests is an old troll thing. To be fair its the same garbage they eat as well. Sometimes it's as faes' and the food will bind you, but mostly its just to take the piss out of you.  
> Old wives' stale is that you should say grace before tucking in, in order to dismantle the charm/glamour.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoil the child Rotten and spare the trauma.  
> Íþró still isn't very helpful and Robbie is bad with violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter with description of corporal punishment

He’d felt light headed. Hot and cold all over.

There just wasn’t enough oxygen to go around, like he was to suffocate. Which, given circumstances, would have been quite kind on him. Sweating, and sitting ramrod straight, he let out a positive to the old elf’s claim.

“I see,” Dovre said at the elder elf’s statement about why he and Robbie were there together in the first place, sounding only mildly intrigued by his flat monotone tone and stared them down in what felt like an eternity and a half.

To be fair they had been pulling one lie after the other.

But… _This._

 

‘ _Bethroded._ ’

 

Robbie was going to hurl.

 

What he did instead was jolting in his seat at something touching his knee. Looking down to see what it was, because it sure wasn’t the elf who was seated on the opposite side of the unwelcome touch, he let out a muffled yelp as between his knees an unfortunately familiar face peered up at him. She really needed to cut the act out, it was getting old by now. If there was someone ever in need of some Princess Training Mastery, there was one obvious candidate right here, literally at his feet. Her lower face was dirty from residue of sludge and she was making grabby hands with equally dirty palms at him under the edge of the table for more.

Well, someone else seemed to appreciate the refuse then, not that he could account for her taste. He could always give her the winter apple, seize the opportunity of getting rid of it. Garbage or sportscandy, it was all the same to him, really.

‘ _On the other hand_ ,’ he thought.

“Something the matter?” the troll asked. Even Íþró gave him a wary look, not having seen the child either from his angle.

“Oh, no, no,” he said, his voice taking on a high pitch and cleared his throat. “I drank too quickly,” he lied and reached out for another piece of glop, trying to keep the child from being seen and keeping up the appearance of accepting the hospitality, lest the little devil might give away what he’d done in the first place. “ _Sooo_ , yes,” he drawled, illusion still intact and shoving the piece under the edge, feeling it getting snatched from him by grubby hands, “that’s why we’re here. It’s, ah, a family matter.” He was aiming for passive.

The troll remained quiet for a beat, before he echoed, “ _a family matter?_ _”_ Appearing this time genuinely interested. Robbie didn’t like it.

“My grandson has fallen ill,” Íþró said flatly, going altogether against Robbie’s own instinct of denying the whole thing. Half-truths were one thing, laying all cards on the table -a completely other one.

It was a major understatement, for starters. Second; _that was none of the troll_ _’s business!_

They’d already agreed to let them pass, there was no need for a sob story and appeal to the goodness of their hearts… If they had ones on their person. The stories and folklore were still iffy on that part.

“Must be bad, if it has brought you to Baula.”

Again, major understatement. And, _again_ , Robbie wasn’t all to sure what the troll was referring to.

The elf said something again, judging by the tone it was imploring, and working, setting the troll back on track. “About our passage,” he said, switching back into English, inviting Robbie into what was happening once again.

‘ _Yes, about that!_ ’ he thought as he snuck another piece under the table, no one even paying attention to if he was putting on a show of eating anything anymore or not.

“Ah, yes… I am to be fair to you,” Dovre said eventually. “We have tried to… Retrieve the stone, years ago, when Baula took it.”

That wasn’t a good sign, now was it? Why could not the troll, if they were so great, get the stone, pebble, whatever it was, from _whatever_ had it now?

Íþró nodded along mutely, waiting for the troll to continue.

“I would rather see an elf try, than a human, but if this is your wish...”

They had already been over this. Yes, it was oh so sad that Robbie had to go deeper in, than the wrinkly old elf. And, to be honest, he was by no means all that eager to do this, never had been, but considering what was at stake… And… There was the old man’s warning that they shouldn’t separate. No matter what. He had to agree on that, he did not want to be left alone without his elven, should he call it, chaperon?

“Perhaps,” he continued after a painstakingly long pause, seeming to think something over, scratching his chin, “you might have a better…” Seeming to look for a word, the elf waiting patiently, Robbie, less so. “Opportunity, than we’ve had.”

Robbie scowled. What was that supposed to mean?

“Just point us in the right direction,” Robbie said whilst leaning away from the elf, for good measure.

“We guard the entry, as is our deal, beyond that you will be on your own, past the…” It looked like he was looking for a word once again. “Ætternisstapi,” he said eventually, not looking all too happy for not finding the English wording, of any kind, “and you will find the path to Baula.”

Íþró’s own brow knitted at the word and gave a curt nod, looking displeased he himself.

A what now? Never mind that. Throwing his arms out, he questioned, “not this rock we’re under but, what,” then changed his choice of words for accuracy, “ _who_ is Baula?”

“A ghost,” he said, short and concisely.

_A ghost?!_

“ _What?!_ ” he all but outright shouted.

“When you say, ghost, what do you-?” Íþró started, not bothering this time with any scathing glances or stray sharp elbows in Robbie’s general direction over the outburst.

Unfortunately, for everyone involved and present alike, that’s when Robbie’s plan from earlier decided to backfire oh so inappropriately. _Someone_ had grown inpatient.

Talk about timing. “Meira,” a squeaky voice demanded, high enough to catch the attention of all three of them, and Robbie felt like putting his face in his hands and groan.

The king had stiffened and put a large meaty hand up to silence the elf.

So much for that.

“ _Meira!_ ” It repeated in a higher pitch, loud and clear and the child had all but crawled to stand by the edge and grasp at Robbie.

Either the giant troll’s patience had reached its end, or it was the glimpse of one small pale hand accompanying the voice that broke the lanky camel’s back. The reaction was immediate and what followed happened in a handful of seconds.

The king let out a low growl that made his hair stand on end and a flash of cold up his spine despite the heat, and reached in under the table. Before either of his guests could react, he’d snatched her by the tail and yanked her out and up. The shriek she let out was ear-splitting and Robbie hunched in on himself to cover his ears and could only stare as the troll held his kicking and screaming offspring at arm’s length by the tail, letting her dangle near upside down and the skirt of her dress fall to obscure her face, before he snarled something to her in a short two word sentence and delivered a swift slap to her bottom and set her down abruptly on the bench by them.

The troll child sniffled and pulled her tail close to her chest in a two hand grip, silent angry tears in her eyes.

What. The actual. Hell?!

Íþró’s mouth was a thin bloodless line. The elf looked _furious_.

Still, he’d made no move to stop it.

Robbie hadn’t heard the bell, with all the screaming and trying to shut out the noise, but, _surely_ , it had to have gone off?!

He looked him over, expecting him to say something, to object to the whole thing. Even the tiniest protest. _Anything!_

None came.

“My apologies, for that,” the troll said, and looked over their ways, past the child who’d started to suck on the tuft of her tail like a pacifier. Robbie recognized the act of finding some kind of solace, grown man and he still sucked on his thumb unconsciously, or so he’d been told. “She knows not to beg,” adding, “ _and steal_ ,” in a dark rumble.

 _That_ was what the troll was apologetic about?!

It was Robbie who found himself indeed addressing it. “You, you didn’t need to do that.” Feeling shell-shocked now to top it off. 

“I have many sons, but litli minn is the only daughter,” Dovre indulged them in lieu of actually attending to the appalling treatment. “She’s young still and, apparently, spoiled. It’s a necessary pain.”

Hogwash. If this was about unsavoury conduct, then that Trixie girl back home, and he himself, would be walking talking bruises since long ago. Okay, Robbie was, occasionally, but more so of his own doing.

The child sniffled.

Curse it all. Was she even old enough to know what she’d done wrong in the first place? And, he was partly responsible here for this. Only partly though…

On a badly adviced whim, he reached out with one hand to place on her too small shoulder. He’d meant to pat her back in a sense of comradery, dare he say sympathy, against his better judgement, and she’d taken it for invitation to crawl into his lap before he got to object, leading him to sit there helpless, his arms held up and away in silent horror.

So not what he’d meant for.

His dress pants would never be the same after this, burning them after they were done seemed like a reasonable course of action.

For the first time since the brutality, the elf said something to the lout and then spoke softer to the child that Robbie wasn’t all too sure what to do with, now that he had a lapful of it.

“Put her on your knee and hold her, that should help,” he said in a low voice. “Bounce it, it should distract her enough.”

Robbie adjusted and bounced her on his knee as instructed, looking at Íþró for any cues on if this was good or not. He was truly out of his depth here.

The upturn of his mouth and slight nod was a positive that he was, indeed, doing somewhat alright.

Looking back down and wondering when she would tire out because his leg sure already was. “Hey there, shush,” he spoke in lack of anything else, not that what he actually said would matter than his voice alone, he gathered. “That really can’t be hygienic,” he added in the same tone about her tail sucking. Honestly, he could probably say anything as long as he kept the same tone of his voice. “Quite nasty, actually.”

“And now, _you_ spoil her,” the troll said, the stretching of his gash telling that he found it amusing.

Ignoring that she’d downright spat in his face earlier, the area where he’d been wounded still hurt out in the open, and he’d shoved her for it earlier, he said, without admitting to chucking the stuff under the table for her, “I’m really not that hungry.” He gestured over the disgusting plate in front of him. “She can have it.”

Not received all that happily, he gathered by the stern words. “Don’t,” he said in warning, “it will spoil her appetite.”

Yeah, to hell and back with that. Challenging on principle, he took another piece and handed it to her. She didn’t eat it but kept it in one of her hands while she still sucked on the tuft.

The troll glared. He answered in kind.

The treacherous geezer of an elf cleared his throat to bring attention to him. “We appreciate your hospitality, but we have only tonight for Baula?”

“Hrmm, yes, I suppose.” Drumming his fingers on the musky wooden surface while giving Robbie one last lingering look, before he continued and stood up, “you will be escorted for as far as we can follow.” He put two fingers in his mouth and made what Robbie could only speculate was meant to be a whistle, but ended up being a resounding wheeze that still managed to carry over the expanse and the ever present audience that Robbie had nearly forgotten were still watching them from a distance. “Your things,” he said, a dribble of drool as he removed his fingers and gesticulated outwards towards the front of the vast hall.

Robbie turned, and a troll came running towards them carrying the old man’s backpack and the lantern they’d lost by the pond. Which was all well and good… Except... Problem was, as he spotted the colourful treaded nylon flying about behind the troll like an extra tail, and he blanched.

Oh. Oh no.

The rope.

“All your belongings.”

“Yeah, except-” he was to point out.

“Highly appreciated and very kind of you,” Íþró intercepted, getting out of his seat in a backwards roll and a flip, hands on his hips before he took the backpack from the unkept creature and inspecting the state of their gear.

“But the rope,” he protested, now trying to get out of his seat too by removing the child off himself with little luck, “how are we to get out?”

“I can always lasso and secure a new way out”, Íþró pointed out. “We might have use of it.” Eying the lantern but refraining from turning it on. “All of it.”

The troll above them hummed in agreement. Ever so considerate, wasn’t he? And motioned for them to follow.

Still one problem though. “Uhh,” Robbie voiced,” I think I might need a little help here?” He’d gotten about one leg over the bench and he was threatening to capsize with the royal offspring still very securely placed where she deemed fit. She just wouldn’t let go!

“You spoiled her,” Dovre said and grunted something that made the child let go quickly, too quickly, and Robbie did fall over with a loud yelp, earning him a chatter and a wheezing that sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Thank you?” he said from his position on the dirty stone floor.

High above him, Dovre’s disfigured face stretched into another of his amused expressions that Robbie just knew would haunt him in the dark, like a grisly afterimage. “Ekkert að þakka.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can someone spot what Robbie did wrong? Well, I mean, he does a whole bunch of wrongs, but a specific one this time. 
> 
> The next chapter is about halfway done, but, writing doesn't come as easy as it used to, so after that one there might be another long stretch until uuuhhhh ch.21???


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbie and Íþró argue and both take cheap shots, some more effective than other's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author cannot resist temptation of several mountain related references.

If he didn’t before, he’d decided now that he hated trolls. Almost in the same measure of how he despised what he’d gotten himself into as the elf held out an arm to keep him from blindly tumble over the edge and down into the inky black chasm below them.

And with the new information on hand that only proved that the old elf had been dead wrong earlier… A poor choice of words.

 

Talking freely about their situation had been near impossible under Dovre’s watchful bulging eyes. “I tried asking,” Íþró muttered under his breath, low enough that the king would not hear them as Robbie had complained that he still didn’t understand just what had nabbed the stone, “he’s avoiding the subject.”

Robbie stated the obvious, “I don’t like this.”

The elf made a noise of agreement and adjusted the backpack over his shoulders. “Stay near me, I don’t trust him,” he said and drew back to walk by his side.

No kidding.

Dovre had led them out and away from the main hall and the audience of his subjects, uncharacteristically quiet since they had met, and into an adjunction of corridors, tall and broad enough that the giant troll could move unhindered. Robbie hoped that the old sports elf had a better recollection of the way they’d come from, because he himself was fairly sure he’d gotten lost after their second left turn. All he could tell was that the air had gotten cooler, if he was to use that as any indicator, so they had moved away from the springs and sweltering main area.

Word must had gotten around, or the royal had made preparations, when a pair of squirrelly even by the local standard looking trolls stood wringing their glowed hands at the top of a flight of carved wide stairs. They were clad from head to toe in heavy protective garments and sporting welding masks of all things which made Robbie momentarily give pause, flicking his gaze over to Íþró to gauge any clue, with little luck, as the troubled expression seemed to match his own.

Dovre gestured for the pair to take the lead along with the trolls awaiting them who flicked the masks down over their ashen faces. Taking the last steps down and around the corner he understood the reason behind the getup and he’d had to shield his eyes. It figured that it was about the time that he’d gotten used to the dim dirty light that he was near blinded by the row of fluorescent lamps on full blast -and they weren’t even pointed in their direct way! He hissed in aversion at the harsh onslaught before one of the mask bearers turned it off altogether into complete darkness until it was switched into the familiar insufficient mining lamps, buzzing and flickering from being kept from turned on all the way.

What he’d caught before his eyesight had gotten ruined again had been a fairly small narrow room smeared in soot in places. From old torches before electricity were wired perhaps? And its current contents a hazard waiting to happen; filled with cables, lamps and cooling fans, all facing a compact antique vault door made out of grey dull metal. Dovre hadn’t been kidding then about security, though, the lamps still made little to no sense. Apprehension washed over him at the implications of what could be on the other side.

He as much heard or saw, as felt Dovre come down the steps to join them and stand close, too close for comfort.

“You will be followed until the edge, then we are awaiting your return here.” Sounding grave from above him.

“And you won’t follow further either?” Robbie asked, just to make sure.

“The grotto.” The hulking figure of Dovre leaned down to Robbie’s level. The troll’s breath was hot and reeked. “One day,” he said, “feet first.”

‘ _…_ _Okay?_ ’ he thought. This close, there was something else beside the bad breath and heat of skin. The troll had magic, just under the surface, for whatever use it was…

He felt Íþró take a hold of his wrist and guide him away from the troll and closer to the door, saying something in their native tongue.

“Of course,” Dovre replied, a lilt of amusement in his lisp and followed it up with an order for his underlings to open the passage. “Good luck, Rotten.”

“Tha-” he was to respond, but Íþró pulled him, effectively shutting him and muttering something of his own towards the royal.

Dovre snorted.

 

It would be a lie if he said that he wasn’t grateful for the intervening elf and an even bigger lie that he wasn’t relieved when they stepped over the threshold.

 

He figured why the king had not followed them through the solid door. Only way the giant troll could pass through was either crawling, or on a stretcher. The ceiling was low, no higher than the solid steel door and even Robbie found himself hunching down to avoid accidentally hitting his head and braining himself on the overhanging rock. In turn, the low passage led to the trolls waddling bent over themselves, before and behind them. The only exception in the parade as a whole was Íþró, who, thanks to his short stature, was allowed to move with far more ease.

 

Soon they exited the passage and Robbie found that he could straighten up into his full height and gazed out over the expanse for what the poor light allowed. There was room to spare. A whole lot of it.

He let out a low whistle. It would appear that the troll community only utilized a portion of the mountain. He couldn’t for sure say if they were above, or below sea-level, but he was willing to bet good money on that it was the latter.

It was impossible to gauge how much room they actually had, as what meagre light they had coming from the opening behind them got swallowed up by darkness. But, something in the cool air and the general feel of it that Robbie couldn’t quite pinpoint further than ‘ _mumbo-jumbo better left alone_ ’, told him there was _a lot_.

It made his skin crawl, he tried to blame it on the drastic change in temperature and regretted that he’d left the outerwear behind by the threshold.

The troll that had been walking before them gruffed, shifting their weight from foot to foot and looking anxious.

“This is where they keep their dead,” the elf translated.

He shuddered. Now _that_ explained the king’s wording. “Fabulous,” Robbie bemoaned.

 

The trolls seemed to discuss between themselves and Robbie could swear that there was a version of Rock-Paper-Scissors going on.

“They’re deciding on who’s going to lead the way past the graveyard.”

“Uhu.” Robbie wiped his nose. Was that what _ehterrny-something something_ had meant?

Crossing his arms, as they watched the group argue, Íþró stated, “those were sun lamps by the door.”

That would further explain the makeshift hazmat suits. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was trial and error that had led to it, and if there were still accidents involved…

“Not the same as the real sun, but it will surely sting.”

Ah, well, that was an odd relief from his earlier speculations.

Íþró added, “whatever they don’t want to cross, it doesn’t like the sun either.”

And there went the respite from his worries. “Still doesn’t make sense of what’s going on. I came for a stone and shoving a boot up Glanni’s ass, not a bad re-enactment of at the mountains of madness, or what have you.”

Íþró scrunched up his face in confusion.

Yeaup, completely wasted on him.

The trolls arguing didn’t seem to be all too productive.

Nervously, he started to tap against his leg in agitation as he stood around while watching them. A hum made it the first melody that came to mind, high pitched and anxious against his tightly closed mouth.

“Really?” Íþró huffed under his breath. “Grieg?”

“You know it?” Any other reference he’d said or made had so far flown over the elder’s head by a mile.

“I was about your age when it was written,” he stated with a shrug.

He blinked. “Late nineteenth century? _That_ _’s_ your baseline? _That_ _’s what I got to work with here?!_ ”

His voice echoed around them, making the group of trolls jolt and one giving Robbie an uneasy look as the old man hushed him.

Robbie had half a mind to call him a relic. The elf was over one hundred and ninety. Would Sportacus be this kooky at that age… If either of them got that old… If he…

 

Sportacus was supposed to be the one outliving him, damnit.

 

“You just had to pick ‘ _I Dovregubbens hall_ ’?” Íþró spoke up again.

Guessing that was the local name for the piece. “Seemed fitting… Name and all, and, well...” he trailed off and gesticulated towards their general surrounding. They _were_ under a mountain, all things considered.

“A bit too well,” the elf hummed in agreement.

“Is he actually the trolls’ king?” Robbie had a vague memory of the old man mentioning something of a king or the other. “Like, the _king_ king?”

The elder scoffed, “a _mountain_ king, yes. But, not _the_ king.” Watching the group with the same expression as when he’d stated their small stature, he said, “not that it matters right now,” and added, “it’s all the same for those here.”

A big fish in a small pond.

An unbidden thought of his own relation to his home, LazyTown, struck him. He didn’t like the implications and chose to ignore it.

 

The quarrelling came to an end with one troll spitting on the ground and stomping its foot, tail wagging angrily and said something foul, before taking over an old handheld kerosene lantern, wary of the flame behind the glass and motioned for them to follow. So, they had settled for a guide then.

 

“I’m guessing that’s the graveyard,” Íþró mused as they passed down the rocky path.

“Don’t want to know,” Robbie spat and kept going, his eyes glued onto the backside of their guide after he had against his better judgement spared a glance to their side and seen countless of mounds made out of rock, because what else did they have, really?

A shudder went down his spine again.

 

The head of their escort stopped abruptly and pointed to a pile of rubble ahead of them. Robbie noted that the stack of rocks bore what had to be markings made from white chalk in a broad bold design, and seeming vaguely luminous. That was nifty, and convenient.

The troll was noising a harangue of sorts.

“The path is marked with charms so that they don’t get lost down here as well.”

“Not very reassuring,” Robbie grumbled. “I take it we’re flying solo from here?” he said, looking at the trolls, but really addressing the elder.

“They say it’s only a short stretch, they’ll be waiting for our return by the door.”

 

They all seemed equally relieved to get rid of one another. He had his suspicions that they were supposed to have been escorted a way further, but as he’d already stated, he was glad to get rid of them.

Didn’t mean that he was fully embracing the concept of abandonment in the pitch black grotto and feeling unprepared on countless levels. Watching the light of the kerosene lantern disappear the way they had originally come from while Íþró had dug up and turned on their own lantern, adjusting its light so they could see where they were actually going from there.

“Did you ask them about the ghost?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And?”

Íþró pulled a face. “All I got was that it was before their time.”

“So they guard a door, not knowing why?”

“They don’t like the area and that’s enough reason for caution for us. As well when we return.” He continued before Robbie could ask what on earth he was on about, “Dovre likes you and I suspect he knew we were bluffing at the table, but it seems like he still thinks you’re human.”

“Because, _I am_ ,” Robbie argued. Whatever his parents were, had been, _he_ was very much human. Thank. You.

The elder gave him a tired look in response to his glower. His mouth tugged into a wry expression and shook his head. “Not from where we see it.” And said not much else as he motioned for them to continue on their own.

 

Robbie hadn’t been mistaken, the chalk did glow in the dark, just enough to spot the next one over after they had reached the other on their path that Íþró didn’t have to tell him twice not to stray from.

Until they passed an old abandoned wheelbarrow that made Robbie raise his eyebrows in confusion. They’d reached an overhang and the trodden ground had split, the one they were on going below and the other leading up to its upper edge that he could barely make out high above them.

“What’s this?” he asked and pointed up the wall of rock.

Íþró stopped, something passing over his face beneath the beard as he looked. “I believe we’re at the base of the… Well... ” he continued after some hesitation, giving in with a deep sigh, “I suppose the direct translation of the word would be it’s a ‘ _lineage cliff_ ’.”

“A say what now?”

“Ætternisstapi,” he said the foreign word. “It’s a form of… Euthanasia,” he finished, like it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

_The wheelbarrow_ _…_

 

What colour would the ground be if they cranked up the light?

 

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish. It hasn’t been used in centuries… Not topside, at least,” he added.

“So,” he said, something ugly and agitated crawling its way up his gut, frustration over exactly everything that had led him there, “great gramps gotten too old and decrepit, better push him over a high edge?” He was really hoping for a no, of any kind.

“Unfortunately.”

The last straw. “What the hell is wrong with you all?”

“Excuse me?

“Corporal punishment, arranged unions, _cliffs!_ ” Throwing his arms out. “Really screaming contemporarism here!”

“I said since centuries, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and you also said decades since trolls been here. Surprise, surprise! There’s still a whole mountain of them!” he argued, “for all I know you lot might _still_ practice this!”

“We do _not_. And if this is about the unfortunate event with the princess-”

“ _Unfortunate?_ _”_ he said in appal, cutting the other short.

“That was disciplining her for begging from you. _We_ , being guests, have no room to object, even if we wanted to.”

Robbie glared at him.

“And, if _he_ wanted to,” he continued, “he could have caused _real_ damage. That was a loose slap. You severely underestimate how strong they truly are.”

He bristled. “That still doesn’t make it okay!”

“I never said it was.”

But he was passively condoning it. “Bull!”

“Keep your voice down.” A warning tone in his voice.

Of all the-! “ _No!_ ” he cried out, his voice echoing, and this time, he knew that he’d put a bit more effort of that _other_ into it as it bounced all around them, grounding the soles of his boots into the rock beneath them.

Íþró remained silent, working his jaw and gave him a glare of his own, until he spoke again, gravely, “I have heard of what you’d done to the children of your hometown,” saying all too levelly, tone growing cold, “ _tend to your own affairs, before you start lording over others_.”

“Wha…” That went about as well as a bucket of icy water over him and he physically lurched. “I, I’ve, I never, I didn’t… I…” Grasping for words fruitlessly. _He had._ It was not the same, he tried to tell himself. But, in the eyes of an outsider… “Maybe,” he said reluctantly, deflecting the all too close to home criticism. “But, you’re still a bunch of, of, I don’t know, a bunch opposed to change!” A ridiculously weak and inane comeback, even in his own ears.

“If you’ve seen our efforts-”

“Oh yes, elven tech is truly top of the line,” he spat. “Then how come I had to stop an _arranged_ marriage? Huh?” Technical advancement and social were on two whole different planes. From what he’d seen, thus far. “Hypocrites,” he added, sounding like a petulant child.

“Once again” he emphasised, “I never said I was in favour of it, _any_ of this. Quite the opposite. If this, and, if this is about Sportacus’ wedding, then I _did_ oppose it.” Quieter, he added, “not that anyone listens to me anyway,” sounding bitter and started to walk down the path away from the base of the cliff.

And yet.

Not turning towards him, Íþró asked, “what is this about? Truly?” as he kept an even pace.

Silence. Thick and heavy between them as he waited for Robbie to answer.

“…Why did you have to go and say I was engaged?” he said, finally.

“I told him that you were already betrothed to my grandson,” he replied, still not looking his way, “because it has more weight… For the both of us. For what you accuse _me_ of, I do agree that this community here is of the old strain. Don’t see how that...” He finally looked over at him, casting a glance and knitted his brow, letting the rim of his hat come down low over his eyes and said, “are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah…” he lied.

Íþró must’ve read his face, or his general state as it was. “Wait,” coming to a full stop and turning back to him, “ _you are?_ ”

“No,” he said quickly, a little too quickly apparently.

The elder blocked his way and didn’t move from there.

He looked down at his hands, raising them up to hug himself. “I was going to ask him,” he said eventually, his voice coming out small.

Two weeks going on three he’d been waiting for those stupid rings.

_And for what?_

A shift in his features into something softer, something Robbie couldn’t deal with right now. “Ah,” was all the old man said.

“That’s… That’s all you got to say? Ah?”

The elf made a noncommittal noise and said, “it brings some things to light.”

Robbie didn’t know what to make of that statement.

 

They moved on in torturous silence after that, passing by more grave mounds on their way.

There wasn’t much else to say anyway, he didn’t really have it in him to start something and the usually chatty elf had gone quiet since long ago. The air had grown near frigid and he was really regretting not taking the parka, they were far from the springs, yet the smell of _something_ lingered.

“This should be the last marking…” the elf said before him, breaking the silence, and held up his lantern, examining the pile of rocks and chalk marks.

It was hard to see anything outside of the limited space provided by the electric light, but it would seem so yes, he had to agree.

They’d reached the overpass, and he regretted _everything_. It was straight and narrow over a black gorge, that he could not see the bottom of, giving him vertigo, and they’d barely taken two steps as he stumbled, making Íþró reach out with a shout to keep him away from the edges.

And that’s when the smell, the complete and utter foul air of _rot_ hit him, growing stronger he could only imagine.

He choked up at the vile smell and instinctively tried to breathe through his mouth instead. Which turned out to be a huge mistake, as it cloyed the inside of his mouth, he could now _taste_ it and he gagged. He covered the lower part of his face beneath his hands to little avail and looked over to see that Íþró had tugged the sleeve of his fisherman shirt over his hand and used it to try and filter out the air as well.

“Wh-” he gagged again, “ _what_ is _that?_ ”

A too long pause, both trying to relearn how to breath without becoming immediately ill. The elf said stiffly, “it’s _death_.”

He froze up. “What?”

“I should have known.” The elder swore profoundly before he said angrily through the fabric, “ghost my-” More swearing, Dovre’s name somewhere in the middle of it. “There’s ghosts and then there’s _ghosts_.” And he spat something. “ _Draugur._ ”

“I’m sorry? A what now?”

“ _Draug_ ,” he repeated. “Undead _. A walking corpse_.”

 

Robbie stared, before he exclaimed in outrage, “ _what?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Íþró, you REALLY SHOULD HAVE.  
> This chapter was frustrating.
> 
> \---  
> I recall stating that Glanni should be thrown down one.
> 
> Ok, so, the thing with Ætternisstapi, is the discussion whether they did exist or not despite many sites being claimed to have being used throughout any Nordic country with sufficient enough cliffs and mountains for people-tossing, leaning hard on a no. And, where I'm from, it's an alternative debate that if they did exist in the first place, such as Nilastupan in Lapland, then they were used solely by Sami -Up until the fabled poor sod Sjulsson they last pushed over the edge who, according to locals and why it was taken out of usage and in general seen as ' _a-not-very-good-idea_ ', had the misfortune of surviving... Nowadays it's used as referring to Elderly Care politics.
> 
> Another thing in common in the Nordic countries and the Scandinavian language? Mother-effing Draugs. We do love our undead, well, my grandmother does.


End file.
